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everyhowlmarksthedead · 4 years

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❛ A BAD NIGHT ❜

with Ezekiel ‘EZ’ Reyes.

Request: Let’s go mmm, a protective ez 😊 - “Did they hurt you?” & "I'm going to keep you safe" please please xx

BY @ly--canthrope

Warnings: mention of violence, vocabulary.

Word count: about 1.1k

Aurora says: this writing hasn't been edited, you may find some grammar mistakes, I'm sorry about that!

Gif credits: @angels-reyes

Masterlist.

“Oh, c'mon, baby girl, you're asking for it with that… short skirt. Leaning down in front of us”. The mexican says.

You are trying to ignore them, placing every bottle of Jose Cuervo on the shelf of the warehouse. Bishop asked you to help them with a party, where all the charters were invited to. And even if El Presidente made them all know that you were part of the family, these two didn't get it. Pablo closes the door, while Mateo comes closer towards you about to put his hands on your waist, when you turn around and hit his chest.

“Don' fucking touch me, pendejo. Not even if you were the last man on earth, I'll consider the option to be with you”. You sentence pushing him away.

“Yeah, for sure, cariño”. He laughs looking at his friend, who is threateningly close.

Your back meets the metallic shelf, slapping his hands out of your skirt, frowning more angry than never. You couldn't think that someone like that could happen, but there you are, trying to stop them without having to resort to the other Mayans.

“C'mon, darling, you're gonna enjoy it”. Pablo chuckles caressing your cheek with the back of his fingers, twisting your neck to not be touched.

“Let's see if you can take bot—”.

Before he can finish talking, your knee has hit his crotch, provoking him a scream of pain. That's your opportunity to run away from them, but when you're about to jump over him, Mateo tangles his hand in your hair pushing you into him. And you can't help but start to yell for help in tears, when the other mexican stands up with some difficulties.

“Shut the fuck up, puta”. His fist impacts straight to your lips, broking it with a lash of burn touring your mouth. “We're gonna show you to resp—”.

“HEY, HEY! WHAT THE FUCK?”

EZ's voice appears from nowhere, as his arms, wrapping Pablo's neck to throw him to the ground. Your charter is following him, pointing them with their loaded guns and furious looks on their faces. Your heart is racing about to fly off from your chest, with your shirt stained by your own blood and an unmeasurable pain roaming your jaw and your lips.

“Are you okay? Did they hurt you…? Let me see you, baby”. You're shaking under EZ's grip, trying to hide your face under his kutte.

“Fucking disgraces”. Angel growl kicking Mateo's abdomen, now lying down on the floor. “Taking the advantage of the girl being alone, you pieces of shit”.

“Querida, are you okay?” Bishop pulls away your hair, with a broken tone of voice, looking for your reddened and scared eyes. You shake your head, just wanting to leave the clubhouse and go home.

“I'm going to keep you safe”. Ezekiel mumble into your ear, before carrying you in his arms, as soon as Mateo and Pablo's president appears.

Oscar has a quick look of you, barely breathing when he finds you trembling, crying and shattered in horror. You are clinged to EZ's neck, feeling ashamed of the show you have made, starting to think that maybe they were right. That maybe it was your fault, and that you were provoking them unconsciously. You shudder against his chest when you start to hear the shoots, watching sideways the warehouse getting illuminated by nine orange flashes. Tucking you in Coco's car, you curl your body over the seat, while the young Reyes runs to the pilot one. In silence, you leave the yard through the alley towards the street.

“I wan—wanna go home”. You whisper, pressing your bottom lip with the back of your hand.

“Okay, baby... I will take care of you”. He turns his face just a second, before you surround his right arm with yours, resting your face there.

As soon as you are at home, letting your body fall down on the sofa, you can't help but break again in crying. With your elbows nailed over your lap and your head hidden in your hands, you let all the pain come out from your body, while Ezekiel looks at you really disappointed about what happened. Without any word, the younger Reyes walks to your bathroom, picking up the necessary things to fix you up. He finds you shaking, not only because you're still scared, but because for some reason you're too cold. Leaving the cotton and the alcohol over the table to take off his kutte, he also unzips his hoodie to place it over your shoulders. Kneeling next to you, EZ grabs carefully and gently your wrist looking for your face.

“Hey, baby…” He whispers with a soft voice, until you're able to raise your eyes filled with tears towards him. “I'm gonna heal your lip, okay?”

You can't say anything, watching him somewhat blurred wet the cotton before beginning to clean the blood in your neck and chin. His hand moves with care, making sure that he doesn't hurt you more than you already are. Leaving this cantel of cotton on the table, he takes another one to repeat the process but pressing it slowly on your bottom lip. Bit by bit, the bleeding stops, under the attentive and worried gaze of EZ.

“I'm sorry…”

“It wasn't your fault, okay?” He shakes his head for a second, leaning forward to kiss your forehead.

“May—Maybe if I di—”.

“The only thing you did was be kind with all the Mayans, because you are a good girl. Respectful and lovely. And those pendejos are already dead, you hear me? You're not gonna see them again, because no one dishonors a member of our family, okay?” His callous and huge hands cup your face, urging you to look at him just nodding. “You are one of the most beautiful people I've ever known, baby. And all of us love you with all our hearts”.

Nodding again, you wrap his neck with both arms, hugging him needing to feel some warmth. Sitting over the floor, EZ pushes you into him, holding you as if you were a lot of months without seeing each other. Desperate for making you feel better.

“I'll sleep tonight on your sofa. Wake me whenever you need me, okay?”

“Okay…”

“I love you, baby. I really do”. He says kissing your left cheek once and again with short and comforting kisses, narrowing you under his arms.

✨ Tag list:

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If you want to be tagged, send me a message!

#mayans mc x reader #mayans mc #mayans mc imagine #mayans x reader #ezekiel reyes x reader #ez reyes x reader #ezekiel reyes #ez reyes

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oneweekoneband · 3 years

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I’m slightly nauseous already with knowing I’m going to say this, but what does “self-awareness” even mean? In modern parlance, as a descriptive phrase, as a comment on art? I’m asking in earnest, like, I’ve been Googling lately, which for me is basically on par with doctoral study in terms of academic rigor. The self is king, anyway, tyrant, so where is the line of distinction between material that intentionally is nodding at some truth about the artist’s life and what’s just, like, all the rest of the regular navel-gazing bullshit. I mean, I’m all self, I am guilty here. I can’t get it out of my poems or even make it more quiet. This is the tenth time I’ve invoked “I” in the space of six sentences. Processing art has always necessitated a certain amount of grappling with the creator, but the busywork of it lately grows more and more tedious. Joy drains out of my body parsing marks left behind not just in stylistic tendencies and themes, but in literal, intentional tags like graffiti on a water tower. This feels an age old and moth-holed complaint, dull, and I am no historian, or really a serious thinker of any kind. I’ve now complained at some length about self-referential art, but didn’t I love how Martin Scorsese nodded to the famous Goodfellas Copacabana tracking shot with the opening frames of last year’s The Irishman? Didn’t I find that terribly fun and sort of sweet? So there’s distinctions. I’m only saying I don’t know with certainty what they even are. I’m unreliable, and someone smarter than me has likely already solved my quandary about why self-knowledge often transforms into overly precious self-reflexivity in such a way that the knowledge is diminished and obscured, leaving only cutesy Easter eggs behind. Postmodernism has birthed a moralizing culture where art exists to be termed either “self-aware Good” or “self-aware Bad”. Self-referentiality in media is so commonplace, so much the standard, that what was once credited as metatextual inventiveness often feels lazy now. In 1996, Scream was revitalizing a genre. Today, two thirds of all horror movies spend half their running time making sure that you know that they know they’re a horror movie, which is fine, I guess, except sometimes you just wanna watch someone get butchered with an axe in peace.

This is all to say that in 2020 Taylor Swift looked long and hard upon her image in the reflecting pool of her heart and has written yet another song about Gone Girl.

“mirrorball” is a very good piece of Gone Girl —feels insane to tell anyone reading a post on a blog what Gone Girl is but, you know, the extremely popular 2012 novel about a woman who pretends to have been murdered and frames her husband for it, and subsequently the 2014 film adaption where you kinda see Ben Affleck’s dick for a second—fanfiction. It would be a fine song, a good song, really, even if it weren’t that, if it were just something normal and not unhinged written by a chill person who behaves in a regular way, but we need to acknowledge the facts for what they are. When Taylor Swift watched Rosamund Pike toss her freshly self-bobbed hair out of her face and hiss, “You think you’d be happy with some nice Midwestern girl? No way, baby. I’m it!” her brain lit up like a Christmas tree, and she’s never been the same. If you Google “taylor swift gone girl” there waiting for you will be a medium sized lake’s worth of articles speculating about how Gone Girl influenced and is referenced in past Swift singles “Blank Space” and “Look What You Made Me Do”. This is not new behavior, and if anything it’s getting a bit troubling to think that it’s been this long since Taylor’s read another book. Still, while the prior offerings were a fair attempt at this particular feat of depravity, “mirrorball” has brought Taylor’s Amy Elliott Dunne deification to stunning new heights. And most importantly, Taylor has done a service to every person alive with more than six brain cells and a Internet connection by putting an end to the “Cool Girl” discourse once and for all. By the power invested in “mirrorball”, it is hereby decreed that the Cool Girl speech from Gone Girl is neither feminist or antifeminist, not ironic nor aspirational. No. It’s something much better than all that. It’s a threat. I ! Can ! Change ! Everything ! About ! Me ! To ! Fit ! In !

Gone Girl (2012) by Gillian Flynn

“mirrorball” (2020) by Taylor Swift

When the twinkly musical stylings of Jack Antonoff, a man I distinctly distrust, but for no one specific reason, whirl to life at the beginning of this song I feel instantly entranced, blurry-brained and pleasure-pickled like an infant beneath a light-up crib mobile or, I guess, myself in the old times, the outside times, three tequila sodas deep under the disco lights at The Short Stop. Under a mirrorball in my head. I know very little about music, as a craft, and I really don’t care to know more. I’m happy in a world of pure, dumb sensation. I’m not even sure what kind of instruments are making these jangly little sounds. I just like it. I am vibing. We may not ever be able to behave badly in a club again, but I can sway to my stupid Taylor Swift-and-the-brother-of-the-lady-who-makes-like-those-sweatshirts-with-little-sayings-or-like-vulvas-which-famous-white-women-wear-on-instagram-you-know-what-I-mean song, pressing up onto my tiptoes on the linoleum tile of our kitchen floor and can feel for a second or two something approaching bliss. “mirrorball” is a lush sound bath that I like a lot and then also it’s about being all things to all people, chameleoning at a second’s notice, doing Oscar worthy work on every Zoom call, performing the you who is good, performing the you who is funny, performing the you who draws a liter of your own blood and throws it around the kitchen then cleans it up badly all to get your husband sent to jail for sleeping with a college student... Too much talk about making and unmaking of the self is way too, like, 2012 Tumblr for me now, and I start hearing the word “praxis” ring threateningly in my head, but I’m not yet so evolved that I don’t feel a pull. Musings on the disorganized self—on how we are new all the time, and not just because of all the fresh skin coming up under the dead, personhood in the end so frighteningly flexible—are always going to compel me, I’m afraid, but that goes double for musings on the disorganized self which posit that Taylor Swift still thinks Amy Dunne made some points.

Because on “mirrorball” Taylor is for once not hamfistedly addressing some “hater”, in the quiet and the lack of embarrassing martyrdom it actually offers an interesting answer to the complaint that Taylor is insufficiently self-aware. This criticism emerges often in tandem with claiming to have discovered some crack in the chassis of Swift’s public self, revealing the sweetness to be insincere. My instinct is to dismiss this more or less out of hand as just a mutation of the school of thought that presumes all work by women must be autobiography. And, regardless, it is made altogether laughable by the fact that anyone actually paying attention has known since at least Speak Now, a delightful record populated by the most appalling, horrible characters imaginable, and all of them written by a twenty year old Taylor Swift, that this woman is a pure weirdo. To accuse Taylor Swift of lacking in self-awareness is a reductive misunderstanding, I think, of artifice. Being a fake bitch takes work. Which is to say, if we agree that her public self is a calculated performance—eliding the fact that all public selves are a performance to avoid getting too in the weeds yadda yadda— why, then, should it be presumed that performance is rooted in ignorance? Would it not make more sense that, in fact, someone able to contort themselves so ably into various shapes for public consumption would have a certain understanding of the basic materials they’re working with and concealing? Taylor Swift, in a decade and a half of fame, has presented herself from inside a number of distinct packages. The gangly teenager draped in long curls like climbing wisteria who wrote lyrics down her arms in glitter paint gave way to red lipstick, a Diet Coke campaign, and bad dancing at awards shows. There was the period where she was surrounded constantly by a gaggle of models, then suddenly wasn’t anymore, and that rough interlude with the bleached hair. The whole Polaroid thing. Last year she boldly revealed she’s a democrat. Now it’s the end of the world and she’s got frizzy bangs and flannels and muted little piano songs. Perhaps this endless shape-shifting contradicts or undermines, for some, the pose of tender authenticity which has remained static through each phase, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been doing it all on purpose the entire time. I’ve never been a natural, all I do is try, try, try...

In the Disney+ documentary—which, in order to watch, I had to grudgingly give the vile mouse seven dollars, because the login information that I’d begged off of my little sister didn’t work and I was too embarrassed to bring it up a second time—Taylor referred to “mirrorball” as the first time on the album where she explicitly addressed the pandemic, referring to the lyrics that start, “And they called off the circus, Burned the disco down,” and end with “I’m still on that tightrope, I’m still trying everything to get you laughing at me,” which actually did made me laugh, feeling sort of warmly foolish and a little fond, because it never would have occurred to me that she was trying to be literal there. I suppose we really do all contain multitudes. Hate that.

#taylor swift #folklore

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gidrutherford · 4 years

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It amazed him that in spite of everything that had happened over the past month, the thing that he’d been harassed about most this week was his ex-wife’s Oscar nomination. Lara was still in the hospital battling what should’ve easily been her demise. If that wasn’t hard enough, they didn’t know either way when it came to his little brother, still absent, assumed taken, without a word as to whether he was even still alive. He hadn’t spoken to his father in weeks. The son who usually made even his darkest days tolerable--the one he was supposed to finally get to spend time with whilst Katherine was in LA--not worth risking out of selfishness whilst tensions were high, and they were all targets.

It felt a bit like his world was imploding and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Maybe it was. The last thing he needed on top of it all was to pretend as though he gave a single fuck about what Katherine was achieving without him.

“Look, just...back up, all right,” he said firmly, though non-threateningly, lifting his hand to create some space between himself and the heckling journalist that’d been stalking him for the past ten minutes. “I don’t want to talk about any of this right now.” The woman seemed offended. Looked ready to walk into his hand, in an attempt to create a scene. The doctor could see someone passing by out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not--” Still consistently painted as the bad guy by the media post-divorce, he wouldn’t have been surprised if they assumed the worst. “I’m just trying to take a walk. Don’t suppose you feel like helping me out here?”

#mobstarter #nice and opeeeen #could be anyone anywhere public #gives us chance to talk about event things #love him #hate him #doesn't matter #not faction specific

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star-trekkin-across-theuniverse · 5 years

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Five Minutes with Negan

He’s so terrible. And I still somehow adore him? So wrong. The man needs a little push-back. XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The way his jeans hung against his ass bothered you. Truthfully, there was precious little about the man that didn’t bother you, but the blue jeans... they were killing you. You knew there was no way that man didn’t have a killer ass hidden under the droopy denim, but either it was always clenched just as tight as tight could be, or his jeans were too big, or some combination of both. Looking at them was like nails on a blackboard.

Rather than continue to look, and possibly draw attention to yourself, you went back to the sewing machine you were rebuilding. You pushed a strand of hair off your face, cursing the fly-aways that never liked to stay tied back, and squinted into the bobbin casing. You’d been trying to repair the goddamn machine in your free time for months, but after the Saviours had brought in what appeared to be the remnants of a large wool and cotton mill, you’d actually been taken off your usual tasks to spend all your time on the industrial machine.

You knew you looked ridiculous, with an LED headlamp on your forehead, your threadbare and baggy t-shirt tied up at the back to keep it from falling into the machine, and a pair of ridiculously strong reading glasses on the tip of your nose, magnifying the tiny parts on the machine. You were so focussed on the mechanism that you didn’t notice the man leaning down across from you watching.

“What’s your number, sweetheart?” His voice startled you. Not because it was unfamiliar, just unexpected. You’d spoken to Negan all of maybe three times in the time since you’d come to the compound. You were neither stunningly gorgeous nor particularly useful, until now, and therefore had avoided notice.

Your head jerked up and bashed into the long arm of the sewing machine and you let out a startled curse. “Motherfucker,” you spat, your hand immediately going to your head, and coming away wet. Hot and wet. The fucking corner of the long arm had split your skin at the hairline and now you were bleeding. “Fucking fuck!” You threw your screwdriver across the room in your fit of temper, not even remembering it was Negan, and his presence, that had caused the accident. Until he laughed.

“You’re a fiesty little thing, aren’t you?” He asked. You quirked an eyebrow and stood straight up, hand still in your hair assessing the damage. “Okay, hardly little. You looked smaller squatting by the sewing machine. Domestic too, although I somehow think that’s going to get me in trouble too.”

“Forty-two,” you snapped, remembering his question. “And if you don’t mind, I’m trying to fix this machine.”

“What’s the hurry?” He asked, Lucille dangling loosely at his side. It had to be a test. You weren’t in the mood for a test, no matter how menacing the goddamn baseball bat was.

“There’s been complaints about your droopy ass.” Your retort made him freeze and as a result so did the baseball bat. That single action made the hairs on your neck raise in a warning. His indifferent slouch straightened out, and he tilted his head in silent assessment of you. “I just figured the sooner I get this machine working, the sooner you’ll get some jeans that fit you.” You struggled to make sure the words didn’t come out in a rush, or sound like an apology.

“And what do you think of my droopy ass, 42?” Negan asked, stepping around the sewing machine and into your personal space. He pulled your hand away from the cut on your forehead and looked at it, the only sound between you the calming breaths you were forcing in and out.

“I think your jeans are too big,” you replied, not moving as his fingers traced along your part to really assess the damage. His breath was warm on your scalp as he let out a soft laugh.

“And you know how to make jeans?” He asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Jeans that will stop the complaints about my droopy ass?”

“I know I’m just a number to you, Negan. I know as far as you’re concerned, I’m no one worth caring about. But before this? The tables would have very much been turned, and I would never have bothered with you. Yes. I know how to make jeans. I learned how to draft patterns and tailor clothing as an apprentice at one of the top fashion houses in New York. Nowhere you would have heard of, if the label on those Wranglers is any indication of your fashion sense. You’re even less likely to have heard of my label, but I assure you, the last three winners of the best actress Oscar wore me. And at the last Oscars, every male nominee was in one of my suits,” you snapped, pulling your head away from his hands.

Negan scowled at your insubordination and leaned forward, threateningly. “Dee, take Miz Forty-Two back to my rooms please. Let the wives know they can clear out.” He spoke to his second without so much as breaking the ice cold stare he’d locked on you. You forced yourself to swallow back your fear and meet his gaze without flinching. “We need to talk about the pecking order here.”

To be continued...

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littlemisssquiggles · 5 years

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RWBY Squiggle Script #019: Junkrats

This is a repost of a Squiggle Script I had originally shared as part of my RWBY Musing #74. While I don’t generally make it a habit to resubmit scripts that I’ve already shared in theory posts, I’m making an exception to this specific script. I happen to adore this script a lot and consider it one of my personal favourites not just because it centers on another favourite Pinehead headcanon I have for Oscar but it additionally introduces yet another RWBY OC of mine.

With all the content I’ve made with my most known RWBY OC: Rose Fox, it’s inspired me to work on more content featuring other original RWBY characters I have.

While the Squiggly RWBY OC (or OCs) featured in this script doesn’t have a face as yet like my Rose, he does have a defined personality and a premise behind his characterization and creation for what it’s worth, I hope this scripts help you guys get to know him as well as get used to him a bit more since you might be seeing him again soon.

If you’d like to learn about the theory/Pinehead headcanon behind this new RWBY OC, read this post right here.

Picture it. A nervous looking Oscar Pine is at Atlas Academy, riding an elevator lift transporting him to a new unknown sector of the school beneath its massive compound.

Accompanying him was a woman known only as Ms. Dolores Mombi. Not that she bothered to disclose her full name to Oscar. During the ride down below, Ms Mombi remained rather stone-faced with her back straight and her lips pursed so tight, you wouldn’t be able to see her mouth if it weren’t for the thick coat of blood red lipstick caked on her thin lips.

Every so often she would glance in Oscar’s direction; her pointy nose turned up in disgust to scrutinize the poor young boy standing awkwardly at her back. Oscar could only shift uncomfortably under her piercing gaze.

Mombi: *sternly* What did you say your name was again?

Oscar swallowed tensely.

Oscar: …Uh…it’s Os---

Mombi: *impatiently* Nevermind. I’ll just call you something like…Freckles.

Oscar: I---

Mombi: No talking.

The lift then came to a screeching halt. The door opened and Oscar found himself looking in on a dark room packed with various machinery and equipment; some functioning while others were off to the side out of order. It looked like a warehouse but it reminded Oscar of the old garage workshop his Uncle Henry used to own back home on the family farm. Before Oscar could get a better look of the place, Ms. Mombi stepped out before him; the heels of her shoes clacking annoyingly loud against the metallic flooring. As Oscar attempted to follow suit, Ms. Mombi swerved on him with one wrinkly yet perfectly manicured hand reaching up to thwart his movements.

Mombi: *sternly* Wait here!

So Oscar watched silently as Ms. Mombi took three more steps and shouted; voice shrill like a banshee.

Mombi: Tip!

The only response she received was her own echo.

Mombi: *exasperated* Where has that good for nothing junkrat gone running off to? TIP!

This time, a voice answered. A man’s voice.

Tip: Is that you Ms. Mombi?

Mombi: *crossly* Get down here immediately! I have someone I’d like you to meet.

Within a few minutes, a tall man entered the room. Oscar could only stare. He knew it was rather unmannerly of him to do so but he couldn’t help it. This new stranger was the tallest man Oscar had ever laid eyes on. He was practically a giant; at least by Oscar’s standards.

There was also…something oddly familiar about the man’s face. Not that there was anything wrong with it. From where Oscar stood, the man seemed friendly enough. Handsome too. But there was just something else about him that Oscar couldn’t quite pinpoint yet. But before he could ponder on it more, Oscar was pulled from his thoughts as Ms. Mombi suddenly snapped her fingers for him to come forward. As he did, Ms. Mombi sharply pulled Oscar by the scruff of his uniform and practically shoved him before the man.

Okay. Giant is definitely what this man is, Oscar thought to himself as he trained his eyes all the way up to the man’s face. His boyish frame seemed smaller than usual under the intimidating stature of this towering juggernaut of a man who blinked down at Oscar; blue eyes curious.

Mombi: Freckles, this is Tip. Tip this is Freckles.

Oscar: Actually…it’s Os---

But Ms Mombi cut Oscar off again; suddenly grasping his shoulders with her trimmed fingernails, sharp like talons and red to match her lips, digging into the fabric of his shirt.

Mombi: *tersely* Freckles will be your happy little helper for the next few months. I trust that you’ll help him get settled in.

Tip: *elatedly* Of course. Always happy to welcome a new friendly face around here.

Mombi: I wouldn’t get too friendly with this absconder. You are not here to be his friend. You are to be his supervisor to oversee his punishment and to ensure that his rehabilitation goes accordingly with the Headmaster’s demands.

Tip: Rehabilit---what now?

Mombi: Rehabilitation.

Oscar watched as Tip quirked a brow, looking between him and Ms Mombi with a look of disbelief. He then pointed a finger at Oscar.

Tip: What no good did he do?

Ms. Mombi only pulled out her Scroll. There is a momentary pause as she used the device. Next came a noise. A message received notification alert as Tip now reached into the pocket of his jumpsuit overalls and pulled out what looked like his Scroll.

Apparently rather than telling the man of Oscar’s alleged crimes face to face, Ms Mombi preferred to message it to Tip in private. Lovely, Oscar thought dryly. There is another awkward pause as Tip took his time to read through Mombi’s message.

Oscar watched; quiet but uneasy, as Tip’s thumb moved up and down his screen as he silently read whatever elaborately long report his teacher at Atlas had wrote up on him. When he was done, Tip returned his Scroll to his pocket. For a second time, the giant man stared from Ms. Mombi to Oscar with an expression of unbridled incredulity and pointed back to Oscar.

Whatever Atlas had written about Oscar; Tip didn’t seem to buy into it like Ms. Mombi did. And Oscar found himself starting to like this Tip guy.

Tip: *in disbelief* Who? This pipsqueak? With that face?

Mombi: Looks can be very deceiving. I should know.

Tip: *dryly* Well of course since you are quite the piece of work.

Ms Mombi merely squinted at Tip; oblivious to his obvious jester.

Mombi: *monotone* Thank you.

She then clapped Oscar on the back making him jump.

Mombi: A couple of months in the Scrap Farm should straighten you up just fine. You might even fit right in here amongst all the rubble.

Ms. Mombi then half chortled at her own little quip at Oscar’s expense. Oscar sulked sadly. Tip noticed.

Tip: *comfortingly* Hey now. I wouldn’t exactly call him rubble. But you know the ole saying. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.

Tip winked at Oscar; flashing him a toothy smile. This made Oscar feel better.

Tip: Besides we both know you’re just happy to have a new slave to boss around here, am I right or am I right Ms. M?

This comment proved to irk Ms. Mombi to Oscar’s surprise. Tip, on the other hand, grinned.

Mombi: *testily* Handle him! Before I have you fired for insubordination.

Tip: *cheekily* Ooof, you can try but I don’t think my brother will appreciate your tone.

Oscar didn’t know who Tip’s brother was but whoever this man was, his presence was definitely influential enough to make Ms. Mombi momentarily quiver at the mere mention of him. Still she maintained her annoyance at Tip and Oscar had to slowly edge himself away from her and over to where Tip stood; worried the old woman might implode from her annoyance. All the while, Tip just stood grinning triumphantly in his corner.

Mombi: *venomously* Handle him. Now!

Tip gave a fake salute.

Tip: Yes ma’am.

With a sharp inhale, Ms Mombi practically stomped out of the room. Only her heels were heard as she returned to the elevator shift. She gave one last lingering sneer threateningly at Oscar and a vexed scoff at Tip before she was finally gone.

The minute Ms Mombi was out of sight, Oscar exhaled a breath of relief he didn’t realize he was holding. He really did not like that woman. Now it was just the guys.

As Oscar looked back at Tip, he found him giving him the once over. Oscar hugged his arms; staring back mousy and uncomfortable.

Tip: So…Freckles, huh?

Oscar: Uhm…yeah.

Tip: Your parents didn’t really name you Freckles, did they? I mean, no offense if they did.

Oscar shook his head coyly.

Tip: What’s your real name?

Oscar: Oscar.

Tip: Uhh huh.

Now it was Tip’s turn to clap Oscar on the back. It wasn’t a stern touch like Ms. Mombi. Actually it was more of a reassuring gesture as an attempt to ease up Oscar’s obvious tension.

Tip: *comfortingly* Don’t take it too personal. Ms. Mombi hasn’t always been much for remembering names. That’s the one thing we actually share in common. I’m not very good at remembering names myself but I never forget a face. Oscar’s a nice name and all but I think I’ll remember you better as Freckles. Cute name for a cute boy. Uh…I hope it’s not offensive if I call you Freckles…or…y’know cute.

Believe it or not, Oscar was used to being addressed as both so he honestly didn’t mind at all.

Oscar: It’s…fine.

Tip smiled; bright and friendly.

Tip: Ah good. As for me, around here I’m called Tip. Just Tip.

Oscar: …Why Tip?

Tip: *chuckles* Well it’s a hella lot easier than trying to say my real name.

Oscar: *curiously* …What’s your real name?

Tip: Tippetarius.

Oscar looked at Tip funnily.

Oscar: Wait…you can’t remember Oscar but you can remember Tippetarius?

Tip: Well of course. I may forget other people’s names but I sure as ain’t gonna forget my own name now. *chuckles lightly* You’re a cheeky little fella. I like that. You and I are gonna get along just fine.

Tip then smiled big and bright again; his prominent dimpled cheeks practically glowing with his expression. And this time, Oscar couldn’t help but return the smile. Tip’s overly welcoming energy was infectious. Tip then opened his arms and gestured around him and Oscar.

Tip: Well Freckles, allow me to officially welcome you to the Scrap Farm. Your home and residence for the next few months; after school hours, of course.

Oscar: Okay.

Tip: Lemme give you the grand tour. Keep up with me now.

Tip then draped his arm around Oscar’s shoulder directing him further into the warehouse. Thus beginning Oscar’s adventures as a junkrat of the Scrap Farm.

----

Fast forward. One month later.

Oscar is finishing up work on a small assembly line of practice droids he had been busily polishing up for that evening’s shift. He is sporting a pair of oil covered brown boots and his trademark sunset orange gloves with a fitted black vest underneath a grease stained metal blue painter’s style jumpsuit (that’s clearly one size too big for him) with the Atlas Kingdom seal and the words ‘SCRAP FARM’ printed to the back with the front zipped down slightly to his stomach.

Hard to believe that a month had flown by so quickly for Oscar. By then, the former farm hand had grown well-adjusted to his new routine. He would spend his weekdays attending school regularly and his evenings working after school down in the Scrap Farm. Sometimes Ruby, occasionally accompanied by either Weiss or Jaune and/or Ren and Nora together, would stay back and wait for him until he had completed his shift so they could travel home together. Other times when Oscar found himself working later than expected, Tip would be generous enough to give the young boy a lift home in his retro mini-van.

A little unconventional seeing a grown man rolling around in a regular rust bucket of a van in a place as technologically advanced as Atlas Kingdom. However Oscar thought Tip was cool enough to pull it off which the man humbly appreciated. As Oscar stood back and admired his handiwork for the evening, a familiar voice called him from behind.

Tip: Yo Freckles, catch!

Oscar turned around just in time to expertly catch something Tip tossed his way. Looking at the object in his hand, Oscar saw that it was can of juice; straight from the vending machine, nice and cold. But not too cold.

Tip: It’s grape. You like grape, dontcha?

Oscar: *chuckles* Grape’s fine. Thank you!

Tip: There’s plenty more if you want. I’ve got lemonade, strawberry, raspberry, cranberry, blueberry, wild berry, berry-banana and apple cider.

He wasn’t kidding. Oscar found Tip seated at a small table in the Scrap Farm. The table was decked with an assortment of various beverages and other refreshments in numerous sizes, shapes, flavours and brands. By Oscar’s amused imagination, it looked like the inside of a piñata with Tip wasting no time in raiding through the snacks as he skillfully popped open a can of what looked like orange soda with one hand and tore open a pack of potato chips with the other. The older man then nodded to an empty chair on the side of the table next to him where Oscar eagerly joined him.

Oscar: *amused* Did you break the vending machine again?

Tip: *through a mouthful of chips and soda* I…may or may not have. But who’s to know for sure. Besides you know the Junkrat Code. If we break it…

Oscar: …Then we fix it…

Oscar and Tip: *in unison; pointing to each other* …and don’t tell nobody!

The two then shared a hearty laugh.

Tip: That’s my boy! Drink up. I’ve got snacks too if you want. We’re celebrating today!

Oscar: What are we celebrating?

Tip: You, silly. It’s your one month anniversary here at the Scrap Farm. You’ve been doing real good so far. Keep that up and I might actually consider early retirement leaving you to inherit this place.

Oscar: *grinning cheekily* Does this mean I get a promotion?

Tip: Heck yeah! You’re now junior assistant super intendent Junkrat… in training.

Oscar pretended to pump his fist.

Oscar: *with a laugh* Yesss!

Tip rolled his eyes amusedly but otherwise couldn’t help but chuckle at Oscar’s enthusiasm.

Tip: You should probably quit while you’re ahead though. I figured Junkrat isn’t exactly the promising future you came to Atlas for.

Oscar: *snorts* I didn’t exactly come to Atlas for a ‘promising future’.

Tip: *surprised* Oh? Then what are you here for?

Oscar: I…

As much as Oscar liked Tip and as trustworthy as the man seemed, disclosing to him the real reason he and the other huntsmen had come to Atlas wouldn’t be a wise idea.

Oscar: I… don’t know yet. I guess… I’m still figuring it out.

He wasn’t exactly lying. There were many things that Oscar still had to figure out on his own. It wasn’t a subject he liked to discuss openly with others. Not even his most trusted. He didn’t even attempt to discuss it with the ancient soul still playing hideaway within his mind. It was a complicated subject. Nevertheless, at that precise moment, Oscar only hoped that his answer was satisfactory enough to dispel further prying from the curious Tip. Fortunately, it was as the man nodded understandably.

Tip: That’s fine. You’re young. You’ve got your whooooole life to decide what you wanna do with it. No pressure. No rush. Just juice and snacks for now, right?

Oscar: *solemnly* …Yeah. No rush.

Oscar stared absently at the contents of his drink; his face mirrored in the pulpy liquid. He looked older somehow. While Oscar was fully aware that he was still the fourteen-year-old boy he’s always been, at least physically, that’s not how he felt mentally. He felt older. Aged and it reflected squarely in his eyes. It surprised Oscar.

When had he matured this much? It was a bit off-putting.

Oscar then shifted his attention on Tip who was now hungrily eating his way through a jumbo-sized bar of chocolate. When the man noticed Oscar staring at him, he flashed him another warm smile, face full of chocolate. He even broke off a couple small squares, offering them to Oscar. The farm boy respectfully declined. Tip only shrugged, chucking the chocolate into his mouth with a resounding CRUNCH; mind now far away in his own little world. Oscar couldn’t help but crack a small smile. It amused him how such an older man could emulate such a pleasant, almost child-like innocence to him and outreach on life. It amazed him just as much as his own sudden mental maturity. When did the adult man become the teenage boy and the teenage boy became the adult man?

The funny thing was, Tip was innocently oblivious to Oscar’s other side. To Tip, Oscar was just a fourteen-year-old boy expected of only engaging in activities that any boy his age was allowed to do. He didn’t expect him to inherit an ancient power. Didn’t expect him to save the world against an unbeatable entity that he helped create in another life.

No. To Tip, Oscar was just a boy; only worthy of a lifetime’s worth of snacks and sweets for working hard. It would make sense that he would think that since he’s only known him that way since they met a month ago. It was a comforting feeling. One that felt oddly familiar to Oscar; reminiscent of a time when he would spend his afternoons on the farm with Uncle Henry.

Now Oscar knew why he was fond of Tip so much. He was just like his uncle. Not that old but still younger at heart. Was not the brightest man but was definitely wise in his own way---knew everything about what he liked which he was willing to teach and pass onto Oscar. And most importantly of all, Tip was very kind. Never got angry whenever Oscar messed up and was very patient with him, more than willing to help him learn from his mistakes and give him the encouragement he needed to improve. To Oscar, being with Tip felt like being with his uncle again. The man who was more of a father to Oscar than the gentleman he never got to meet. May both of their souls continue to rest peacefully.

With this feeling on his heart, Oscar finally relaxed. If a man like Tippetarius can be so carefree at the age of over 50, then Oscar, the 14-year-old needed to follow in his stride and remember his own youth. After all, he was still a kid. He was still just a boy. For now. So, in that moment, Oscar became a boy again.

He took a huge swig of his grape juice, downing everything in one gulp. He then reached over and boldly broke off a giant slab of Tip’s jumbo chocolate bar right under his nose. Tip blinked in surprise at the sudden pilfer. Oscar nervously took a bite from his poached chocolate; half-expecting Tip to get annoyed.

But instead, Tip smiled--- nonchalant and welcoming as always and Oscar eased up again.

Oscar: I’ll tell you this though.

Tip tilted his head at Oscar curiously.

Oscar: I really like being a Junkrat.

Oscar then smiled. A genuine smile to show that his words were sincere. He was met with a nice big broad happy grin from Tip; dimples shining.

Tip: And I like that you like being a Junkrat.

Tip then raised his nearly empty can of soda for a toast.

Tip: To the Junkrats!

Oscar joined him.

Oscar: To the Junkrats!

The two then clinked their cans and finished their drinks. A comforting silence then fell between them. The only audible sounds were Oscar munching on his chocolate while Tip sat sprawled off across from him; his legs now propped up on a stool he’d wheeled over. His big feet danced from side to side; one side of flip-flips dangling dangerously on the tip of his toes as Tip cracked open another cold one without a care in the world.

It would be another few beats before Oscar started up a new conversation; chocolate done but another can of juice in hand.

Oscar: …Tip, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.

Tip: Shoot.

Oscar: That first day…Ms. Mombi threatened to fire you… and…

Tip interrupted with a sharp laugh.

Tip: *nonchalantly* Listen; I’ve worked here for over 25 years and Ms. M has had it out for me since day one. Threatens to fire me at least five times a week and Atlas Academy would have to be dumber than a box of rocks to actually listen to her. Who do you think really runs this place? That old witch couldn’t fix anything if you showed her how. So don’t you worry about that. She’s not getting rid of Ole’ Tippy Top that easily.

Tip then flashed Oscar a wink and the boy smiled. He was relieved to have that assurance at least. However that wasn’t the question he was gearing up to ask.

Oscar: …But… Ms Mombi doesn’t seem like the type to back down from anyone but when you mentioned your brother, she backed down immediately. So…

Tip nodded slowly in realization; a grin toying at his dimpled cheeks.

Tip: …You wanna know who my infamous brother is?

Oscar nodded innocently.

Tip: *chuckling* I knew this day would come. Whelp, you are junior assistant super intendent Junkrat in training after all. Might as well let you in on the ole Junkrat family secret.

Tip then urged Oscar to lean in closer. The farm boy obliged; eyes wide with curious eagerness.

Tip: When we first met, I told you my name was Tip. Short for Tippetarius. But my full name is actually Tippetarius Ironwood .

Oscar, who had absently been taking another big sip of his drink, suddenly choked; spraying juice right in Tip’s face.

Oscar: *coughing* Ir…Ironwood? You’re related… to the General!

Tip only wiped his nose with a handkerchief from his pocket, perfectly unphased by Oscar’s bout of shock.

Tip: *casually* I just like to call him big brother Jimmy. But yeah, James is my brother. Don’t you see the family resemblance?

In fairness to Tip, he was right. For weeks, Oscar had been trying to piece together why Tip seemed so familiar to him. While he reminded him of his uncle in spirit, there was always that one other odd thing about the way he looked that gave Oscar the impression he had seen his face somewhere before. But he could never quite put his finger on it. Now he knew why. As the realization hit him like a sharp slap, Oscar saw it.

The uncanny likeness. The metallic blue eyes. The tall, strapping muscular build. The sharp jawline that could cut butter. The prominent dimples.

Sure Tip was more clean-shaven and a natural brunette without a single grey hair on his head but the proof was all there. Right in Oscar’s face, clear as daylight. There was no denying it now. Tip was an Ironwood or at least he looked ridiculously a lot like the other Ironwood Oscar was all too familiar with. If Oscar’s jaw could fall any lower, it could decimate Mantle. Somewhere, deep within the recesses of Oscar’s psyche, his amazement was matched by another’s.

Oscar: *stupefied* I…I…I can’t believe it. The General has a brother! I…I’m sorry. It’s just that he’s never---

Tip: Mentioned me? Classic Jimmy. He’s never been one to disclose much about his family life. He’s always been a private man. Me not so much. Mainly because I like using that little titbit to watch that ole witch up there squirm. You should have seen her face when she found out that I wasn’t lying about James really being my brother. Most people don’t believe the relation at all at first.

Oscar: I…don’t blame them. I’m still finding it hard to believe myself. The General has a brother. That’s so weird! You’re nothing like him.

Tip quirked an eyebrow.

Tip: What? You think all us Ironwoods are hardboiled, war-ridden military soldiers?

Oscar: *blanched* …Uhhh…I…well…uhm…

Tip gave another sharp laugh, patting Oscar’s hand reassuringly.

Tip: Relax Freckles. I’m just yanking your chain, kiddo. You see this is why I normally stray from using the ‘I’m an Ironwood’ card. Being an Ironwood generally tends to garner a rather jumpy reaction from most people around here and I like folks to be relaxed around me. Besides James and I have always been different. Night and day is what they used to call us growing up. Funny. You would think we wouldn’t be given that we are twins and all that.

For a second time, Tip was met with a spritz of pulp-fuelled fuzz as Oscar spat out his drink yet again.

Oscar: *incredulously* You’re twins!.

Tip: Are you going to keep doing that every time!

Oscar: *squeakily*…Sorry.

Tip sighs, offering Oscar a napkin which he graciously accepts and wipes his mouth.

Tip: No we’re not really twins. That part’s the lie. I just wanted to see your reaction. Jimmy and I are actually 5 years apart but people did used to think we were twins growing up though. We do look a lot alike. I have the cuter dimples though.

Oscar snorts.

Tip: We also used to be pretty close. Jimmy and Tippy. The Ironwood Brothers. Thick as thieves. Man, those…heh…those were the days.

Oscar: Aren’t you guys still close now?

Tip’s face fell.

Tip: *sombrely* …Not quite. I mean, Jimmy did get me this job when I was in a pinch which was…nice. Glad to see he still likes to...look out for his baby brother when he’s able to. At least that part of him hasn’t changed yet. But that’s as much as I hear from my brother. I invite him to dinner from time to time…well all the time. But he never shows. I guess being a great General in charge of the Atlas Military and the whole kingdom must eat up a lot of his free time. But, no shame in trying, right?

A wave of blues flashed across Tip’s face. For a man who’s often seen as bright and cheery, it was hard for Oscar to see him look so sad and the boy frowned; feeling guilty now for daring to bring up the subject.

Oscar: Tip…

Oscar nearly jumped as Tip suddenly perked up with a clap of his hands; suddenly staring at Oscar wide-eyed; blue eyes twinkling.

Tip: Hey speaking of family dinner. You know my wife’s a Mistral girl. Grew up on the same country side as you. She’s been clamouring to get me to bring you home for weeks but y’know…me and my straw brain… keep forgetting. What’d you say to a nice home cooked Mistralian style dinner over at my house tomorrow night? You can even bring your friends along too. The more company, the more food to enjoy. How does that sound?

Oscar: That’s sounds…really great. *grins* Yeah I’ll be there.

Tip: Terrific! I’ll tell the Mrs. to start cooking. Bet she’ll be thrilled to finally meet you. Lemme just…er…make a little note here so I don’t forget this time.

Oscar: *chuckles* Right.

With that, Tip whipped out his Scroll. Now the only audible noise was the tap-tapping of Tip’s fingers against the glass screen. Oscar, on the other end, drank quietly. If anything, this should have been the end of the two Junkrats’ casual conversation. However, there was another curious question Oscar really wanted to ask that kept egging at him. And for a second time, this sentiment was coordinated by the other being within his mind whose own curiosity encouraged his.

So with another swig of his drink for added courage, Oscar faced Tip again just as he pocketed his Scroll.

Oscar: *sheepishly*…So…what happened?

Tip: What happened what?

Oscar: …Why aren’t you and Jim---the General close anymore? Did…something happen…between you two?

Again. This would be the part where Oscar would expect Tip to lose his patience with him and possibly pull him up for being such a nosy kid; prying into a grown man’s personal business. But just like before, Tip subverted Oscar’s expectations as he only chuckled. He didn’t seem annoyed at the probe. Instead he smiled. That same classic Tippy smile; big and bright as he always gives. Even though Oscar could easily see the slight tinge of blue behind it.

Tip: Quite the perceptive little cookie, aren’t you now?

Oscar: *shrugs jokily* My brain’s not made of straw y’see.

Tip laughed hoarsely; wagging his finger at Oscar in a ‘good one’ type of gesture. Oscar smiled but he didn’t back down from his question. And Tip saw that.

Tip: The Tale of the Ironwood Brothers…

Tip paused. A frown flashed briefly across his face as if remembering something awful. But it was gone as quickly as it came with Tip settling on a sombre half grin.

Tip: Well…that my dear young Freckles is another ole junkrat family secret…for another day. For now, story time’s over.

With that, Tip rose from his seat and started ushering Oscar to do the same.

Oscar: Wait…what? Really? What happened to us celebrating?

Tip: We can celebrate more on the way home once our shift’s over and all the work is done. Besides the faster we finish up, the sooner I can drop you off safely. Come on now. Don’t want the wifey to start ringing down my Scroll again. Same for your mother hen.

He meant Ruby. Oscar frowned, folding his arms with a huff as he grouchily watched Tip start packing all the remaining snacks and drinks into a duffle bag. At one point he stopped to give Oscar a firm look that clearly meant that he wanted him to stop pouting and start assisting. Finally Oscar gave in with a sigh of defeat.

Oscar: Fine.

Tip smirked with a single nod. He then thrusted the snack bag into Oscar’s lap leaving him to secure the rest of the goodies. As Tip spun around, there suddenly came a small clatter from the back of the warehouse. As the senior Junkrat inspected, he was met with mechanical shrieks of alarm as a towering Atlesian battle droid peeped its obliquely pumpkin-shaped metal head from behind a pillar of oil cans it had accidentally knocked over.

Tip only shook his head at this familiar bot.

Tip: Oy! PMKN-4340! Don’t think I don’t see you back there! You know you’re not supposed to be outside of your terminal after hours. Offline now!

More mechanical noises were heard, this time in disappointed protest followed by another clatter of cans as the droid---PMKN-4340, begrudgingly plodded its way back to its charging terminal in the backroom with its other sleeping brothers.

When Tip was assured that the droid was back where it was supposed to be, he returned to Oscar who was almost finished packing.

Tip: Sorry about that.

Oscar: 4340 acting up again?

Tip: Yeeeeep.

Oscar: Have you tried switching it completely off? Removing its batteries…er…power core…whatever?

Tip: Pffft! You say that like I didn’t have the common sense to try that a bazillion times.

Oscar: *in disbelief* And it still comes back online? Every time!

Tip: Mmmm hmmmm

Oscar zipped up the fully packed snack bag and tossed it back to Tip who slung it over his shoulder.

Tip: *sighs* Yeah…4340’s always been an oddball but I’ve never seen it this persistent before. If I didn’t know any better, I think it likes you, Freckles.

Oscar: *surprised*What? Me?

Tip: Yeah, it only misbehaves like this when you’re around. Maybe it’s got a little robo-crush on you. Don’t think it’s female though. Do robots even have genders? I mean…it’s looks male but maybe it’s one of them models where you can decide the sex. I never really checked. Never really thought about it.

Oscar: *awkwardly* …Oookay, that’s enough of that. Let’s change the subject, please.

Tip: Yeaaaah you’re right. I’m too old for that kind of talk with you young whippersnappers. *chuckles* I still think that robot’s interested in you for some reason though. Might even give that lil Ruby girl you like so much some competition.

Oscar: Wait…WHAT!

Tip only gave Oscar a knowing look. Oscar could only turn pink under his gaze.

Oscar: *embarrassed* I…I…I’m not…really…it’s not…

Tip: What? You think I wouldn’t notice your crush on Little Red Ruby Hood? My brain may be made of straw but my eyes are sharper than a tack and you got it bad, m’friend.

Oscar: *embarrassed; blushing* Shu---Shut it!

Tip: *teasingly in a sing-song voice* Bad for the Rose.

Oscar: *cheeks turning from pink to red* Shut up, shut up!

Tip: *pokes Oscar’s reddened cheeks playfully* Want some tips? Some Tippy Tips on romance---

Oscar: *covers his ears childishly; blushing intensifies* No! No! We are not having this conversation! Nope! No! No! Not listening anymore. Noooo!

Tip clutches his sides, doing his best not to keel over from laughing his butt off. The older Junkrat then patted his young protégé lightly on the back; silently reassuring him that he wasn’t going to tease him any further. Oscar merely pouted grumpily; unconvinced. Tip grinned.

Tip: *laughingly* Come on. Finish your juice and let’s get back to work, lover boy.

Tip then masterfully evades a grouchy punch to the shoulder from Oscar as he innocently danced his way out of the room leaving a flushed farm boy alone to his embarrassment. With the senior Junkrat gone, Oscar drops his face in his hands; groaning unapologetically loud.

Oscar: *awkwardly* Why? Why does everyone keep calling me that?

Tip: *yelling off-screen* Because you’re that darn obvious boy!

At this point, Oscar’s face was beet red.

Oscar: *mega embarrassed* Shut it old man!

And scene.

More Squiggles’ RWBY Content!

~LittleMissSquiggles (2019)

#rwby #oscar pine #rwby theories #rwby v7 theories #squiggles scripts: rwby #squiggles rwby ocs #tippetarius ironwood

11 notes · View notes

theycallmemoosey · 6 years

Text

I’m Right Here

Crutchie x Reader

A/N: Well here is a blast from the quite recent past! Back at it again with the Newsies fics...I was really happy to write for the fandom again cos I won’t lie, I kinda missed it. This was another request and I’ll be honest, I feel kinda bad because I’m not too happy with it. All the same, I hope you guys enjoy it! (PS. There’s a reference in there for my fellow Teen Wolf fans...50 points to Hufflepuff if you can spot it) Moose :)

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You sprung up from your bed, gasping at the loud ringing sound from the warden’s walking stick on one of the beds. Looking around the room, you watched as all the other boys groaned and whined with you. You screwed up your eyes and pulled the blanket back over the top of you, desperately trying to block out the noise from the boys around you.

“Y/N?” The warden pushed your shoulder gently, laughing at your ignorance, “come on…only fair you have to go too”

You flopped around and huffed, looking at him momentarily before dramatically groaning.

“Can’t. Have. Cramps.” You groaned, pretending to wince after each word.

“You used that excuse yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. And must I go on?” He laughed, throwing the covers off of you onto the floor beside the bed, “GET UP!”

“You’re mean, old man!” You shouted back at him, snatching up your blanket off of the floor as you hesitantly got out of bed. You paused as you watched the boys all laugh and talk as they got ready before your eyes landed on a particular boy. He smiled brightly as he pulled up his socks, struggling slightly as his leg didn’t co-operate with him. You smiled sadly, your heart breaking for both him and yourself.

“You’re bright pink, Sparky” a familiar voice teased you, making you snap your head in his direction.

“Shut up, Race, or I’ll make ya” you snatched his hat off his head and shoved it in his chest, turning round sharply on your heel as you headed towards the bathroom.

“Is that a threat?”

“Why? Want me to make it one?!” You shouted at Race, slamming the door to the bathroom in frustration. You sighed as you turned your back to lean on the door, listening as Race shouted at the rest of the dorm.

“Sparky’s in the bathroom, boys!”

“She’s got a name, Race!” You heard another boy shout, laughing slightly as he ended his sentence.

“Oh yeah? Cos with that temper, I thought that name suited her!”

Sighing, you pushed yourself off the door, heading to the mirror to check the state you were in.

“Not that bad, today…I mean, still look like a bloody ogre but I guess it’s better than usual?”

“Why are you talking to yourself, Y/N?” Crutchie questioned, laughing to himself slightly as he watched you jump, pink spreading across your cheeks.

“There’s a girl in here. You know the rules”

“I’m your best friend, rules don’t apply to me”

“Well, actually, it kinda does. See, there’s this thing called privacy that is actually a human right and right now, you’re violating my human right. You could go to jail for that”

Crutchie scoffed, smiling widely, “Come on. We’re already late”

You scoffed and grabbed your tattered brown jacket from the hook next to the door, before joining Crutchie as the two of you would head to the circulation gate.

—————————————————————

“JACK! JACK!” You called out, pushing your way to the front as the hoard of boys began shouting and screaming at the terrified boys in the circulation grounds. You managed to get to the front and grab Jack’s hand. He spun around in shock, relaxing when he saw it was you.

“What’s the matter?”

“What’s going on?” You asked, trying to look beyond the gates to see what was happening, meeting the two pairs of hungry eyes you were used to seeing every day.

“They jacked up the price of the papers”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard…” Jack turned around at the sound of the Delancey’s sneering.

“Well well well, look what the cat dragged in” Oscar remarked, making it obvious he was talking to you.

“Hi Oscar” you replied haphazardly, not caring for him as your eyes scanned the crowd for Crutchie.

“You joining the strike too? Oh, stupid question. You’re a girl! You ain’t smart enough to make your own decisions”

You whipped back around, staring at Oscar angrily before smirking, “I always knew you were a girl! Now, where’s your sister? You two really aren’t smart enough to be on your own”

Oscar growled at you, lunging at the gates and grabbing them threateningly, getting even more frustrated at the fact you didn’t even flinch. At the sound of his brother’s growl, Morris sauntered over, picking something out of his teeth.

“What’s the bitch done now?”

You were about to snarl back at him but the name he had given you had triggered something in all the boys as all of them pushed forward, trying to get to Morris to kill him. No one called you that and got away with it. Not even those in Brooklyn would dare call you such a name for they feared the wrath that would entail. You were forcefully pushed forward from the crowd, pushing you into the gate. Jack screamed out, silencing the crowd and stopping their actions.

“ENOUGH! Listen…I just had a talk with Davey here, and we is gonna start a strike!”

You shook your head as you pushed your way all the way to the back to where Crutchie was, not wanting to hear the constant teasing from the brothers anymore.

“You ok?” Crutchie asked, smiling sadly as he noticed you emerge from the crowd.

“Let’s just go home…I don’t think this is going to end very well”

Crutchie nodded and offered out his arm and you took it lightly, very aware he needed to use his entire upper body to support himself. The two of you began walking back but you both stopped in your tracks when you heard the gate open and a roar of boys shouting. You turned around, noticing a brawl happen between the Newsies and the Delancey’s gang.

“Crutchie? What’s happening?!” You cried, wanting to jump in and help but not knowing how.

“I don’t think they’re too happy that we’re on strike!” Crutchie cried out to you, the sound of the ‘fight making it hard to talk without shouting.

“SPARKY!” Race shouted, his head in a headlock of one of the Delancey brothers, his eyes wide in shock, “LOOK OUT!”

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion before you heard a yelp from Crutchie behind you, making you turn around in surprise. Snider was behind you with a load of policemen and guards from the refuge. Before you knew it, the Newsies were trying to fight off both the Delancey’s gang and the guards all at once. Somehow, you were dragged into the fight, but having been raised on the streets by your parents before they passed, your fighting skills were not bad at all. You dodged punches from the circulation boys and slid underneath the legs of the guards as he lunged to grab you. You caught glances of newsies being attacked and dragged away, but that only angered you more. Out of nowhere, a sharp pain hit your face and knocked you to the ground, your head slamming on the concrete as you fell. The last thing you heard was Jack crying out, “CRUTCHIE!”

————————————————————

You woke up slowly, your eyes stinging as the bright light from the window shined right on you. You sat up slowly, jumping slightly when you saw all the boys stood around your bed.

“What-what’s going on?” You stammered, trying to stand up but stumbling backwards slightly, feeling two arms hold you upright.

“Sparky, maybe you should sit down” Race nodded, holding his breath.

“What’s happened, where’s Crutchie?!”

Jack knelt down to your eye level and took your hand, “Listen, Y/N…please don’t freak out”

“Oh yes, because that’s so settling” you snapped, immediately regretting it when Jack gave you a glare. He relaxed and took a deep breath when he realised you had calmed.

“Y/N, Crutchie was…taken…”

“What?” You breathed out, so quietly you were surprised anyone had heard you.

“I’m really sorry. We’re going to try everything to get him home. Race and I are going tonight to try and rescue him”

You nodded and stood up, the boys all watching you cautiously as you slowly walked to the bathroom, shutting the door slowly. As soon as the door had clicked shut, you collapsed to the floor and cried your eyes out.

Crutchie wasn’t just your best friend, he was so much more. He had been with you when you were brought in from the streets, comforting you each night when you woke up crying from your nightmares. As the two of you grew up, he was there for you no matter what. He made you laugh, cry and angry, but more than anything, he made you fall in love with him. You had loved Crutchie for so long, but no one knew. You never told him as you feared he wouldn’t feel the same way, so you kept your feelings hidden from all the boys and the warden, crying some nights when reality set in again.

“Sparky?” Race knocked on the door, entering slowly. He gasped as he raced to you on the floor, scooping you up and holding you tightly as you cried into his chest.

“I love him, Race” you sobbed, “I love him so much. I can’t lose him! He’s going to die! They’re not going to take care of him! He’s too weak! Too fragile! He’s going to die in there!”

Race pulled you in close and shushed you, rocking you back and forth as you cried. Jack knocked on the door to get Race when the two of them noticed you had fallen asleep. Race carried you back to bed and tucked you in before heading to the refuge to get Crutchie.

——————————————————————

“HEY! GIMP! GET OVER HERE, THERE’S SOMEONE AT THE WINDOW FOR YOU!”

Crutchie limped over, using the bunk beds for support as the guards had broken his crutch.

“Jack! Race!” Crutchie said gleefully, smiling widely.

“Hey, we’re gonna bust you out of here” Jack smiled, groaning as he tried to support himself on the bars of the window.

“Jack, I’m not so sure. How are you going to do it?”

“We’re working on it” he groaned, still trying to smile although struggling.

“Is Y/N ok?”

“She’s worried about you” Race piped up, struggling more than Jack to keep himself up on the bars of the window, “She just wants you home now”

“This place is guarded to the very door. There’s no way you’re going to be able to sneak in here, at least tonight. And I’m certainly not going to fit in between the window bars”

Jack nodded, “We’re coming to get you. Just hold on tight”

Jack took Crutchie’s hand and squeezed it in reassurance, smiling sadly at the boy he had always considered to be a brother.

“Quick. Before you get caught” Crutchie shooed them away, Jack and Race shuffling down the drain-pipe quickly but cautiously.

Crutchie watched the two boys scurry out of the refuge gates and sighed sadly, limping back over to the crowded bunk that was now his bed for the next week. He began to feel tears in his eyes at the thought of you being scared and alone, your nightmares coming back and no one being able to comfort you like he does. He appreciated that you were worried about him, but he was probably worried about you more.

——————————————————————

“WOAH! WOAH! Y/N! IT’S OK!” Jack cried, taking you into his arms as you continued to scream and cry from a nightmare you were having. You had the same nightmare for weeks now, the image of Crutchie being taken and hurt replaying in your mind, getting worse each night.

“Y/N IT WAS JUST A DREAM. IT’S A DREAM. WE’RE OK!” Jack tried to calm you down, shushing you as you sobbed.

“Jack, he’s being hurt. He’s going to die” you cried into him, not caring that the rest of the dorm was probably awake as well.

“Y/N, please…calm down” Jack begged, rocking you gently. You squeezed Jack’s hand tightly and listen to Jack’s steady heartbeat. He wasn’t Crutchie, but he was trying his hardest to help you all the same.

“I’m sorry” you sniffed into Jack’s chest, loud enough that you knew the rest of the dorm would hear.

“Don’t be sorry. Hey, I promised I would get him outta there…you ain’t giving up on me, are you?”

You shook your head gently and sighing, pulling back from Jack’s embrace to look at him directly.

“Please, get him as quickly as possible. I just need to know that he’s safe”

Jack nodded and laid you back down on your bed gently, pulling the blanket on top of you as you fell back asleep. He sighed as he watched you sleep, guilt overcoming him as he thought about all the nightmares you had been having recently. He knew that the only thing that would put your mind to rest would be for Crutchie to be home, by your side. Race had told him about your love for Crutchie, explaining why you had been having nightmares about him.

Race looked down at Jack from his bunk and bit his lip, “we really gotta get him home, Jack…it’s not fair on her now. It’s killing her now”

Jack nodded in response and grabbed his cap, nodding his head towards the door as a silent signal for Race to follow him.

The two headed towards the refuge, dodging in and out of the shadows as they hid from anyone and everyone, taking every precaution under the moon not to be seen. As they walked past the refuge gates, they snuck into the grounds, finding an open door into the main building. Luckily, it was at such a time in the morning that all the night-guards even gave up and fell asleep. Silently, they headed in the general direction of the dorm they previously saw Crutchie in, Jack’s previous experience in the refuge being of use to them.

“Crutch? Crutchie?” Race shouted in a hushed whisper, getting elbowed by Jack for making noise.

“Shut it, Race. We can’t afford to be caught”

The two of them tip-toed towards the nearest dorm door they could find, sliding in the crack in so as not toped it any further or make a noise.

“Crutchie?” Race whispered out, boys and girls of all ages looking at them with confusion.

“Wait” a boy commanded, not bothering to hush his voice, “Why are you here?”

“We’re here to get someone. Crutchie. Know where he may be?” Jack asked, not caring that the boy tried his best to be threatening, “About this high, can’t walk properly and has a crutch?”

“Had.” The boy corrected him, “You want Gimp? I know where he is”

“Can you help us?” Race pleaded

“For a price”

“Fine” Jack stated, “Now where is he?”

———————————————————————

“Y/N?” Albert shook your shoulder, trying to wake you up, “Y/N, come on. Someone is here to see you”

You opened your eyes slowly, seeing Albert’s face filled with excitement. You sat up, confused, and looked around, your eyes widening with shock when you saw a boy sat on the end of your bed, crutch in hand.

“Crutchie?” You asked, your voice shaking slightly at the boy you saw in front of you.

“Hey, Y/N” he smiled, shifting up towards you to take your hand.

“No” you took your hand back, cowering further back away from him, “no, you’re not here. You aren’t real”

Crutchie looked up at the boys, all of them looking sadly at him, before turning back to you, “What do you mean? I’m right here, Y/N”

‘No. You’re just in my imagination, you’re not here” you began to cry, your breathing quickening and your vision becoming blurry.

“Boys, leave” Jack ordered, standing further back himself as he watched to make sure you were going to be ok, “Crutchie, she’s been having nightmares and hallucinations of you. She probably thinks you’re not real, just like the past weeks”

Crutchie looked at you with worry, trying to think of any way to calm you down, “Y/N listen to me, you’re having a panic attack. Listen to me, I’m right here. I’m real. Listen to my voice, Y/N…match your breathing with mine”

You watched as Crutchie took deep breaths, trying to encourage you to breathe with him, his hands slowly going towards yours to take them.

“Crutch, it’s not working” you hyperventilated, shaking your head as you tried to make your vision clear once again.

Crutchie stammered, looking back at Jack who was also showing his worry, his arms by his side and his eyes not leaving yours. Crutchie took a deep breath and placed both hands on face and pulling you towards him, kissing you gently. Surprised by his action, you stopped breathing and stared at him with wide eyes. When you realised what he was actually doing, you closed your eyes and kissed him back. Crutchie pulled away from you, his hands not leaving your face.

“What was that?” You asked him breathlessly, still trying to make sense of what had just happened.

“I read somewhere that holding your breath can stop a panic attack. You held your breath when I kissed you”

“You could have stopped me breathing without kissing me”

“I wanted to kiss you” Crutchie smiled, stroking your cheek with his thumb. You grinned back at him and lunged towards him, embracing him tightly. You saw Jack chuckle to himself and leave, pulling the door to the dorm closed behind him. As you pulled back, you laughed before kissing Crutchie again. He loved you too, and that’s all that mattered.

#crutchie x reader #crutchie #crutchie morris #morris #crutchie morris x reader #Newsies #newsies imagine #newsies oneshot #crutchie imagine #crutchie oneshot #Jack Kelly #racetrack higgins #andrew keenan bolger #andrew keenan bolger x reader

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tea-and-theater · 6 years

Text

um this is a school au

ykySo, this is co-written by the lovely @neko-kaiyo, and basically Oc-centric. This is a little different from my usual style, and also features my annoying OC Moon, and Neko’s OC, Nova. so, yeah, this is really sad dark and kinda badly written.

TW: fights, a few swears, unfair detention/ISS, dogs, flirting, homophobic slurs, vandalizing, refrences to death

School was hell, all the newsies knew this. Teachers, kids, and staff were assholes; the newsies only had each other. So when Moon heard a non-asshole and saw her sitting alone at lunch, she immediately went over and sat next to her, everyone else following behind.

The non-asshole, also known by the name of Nova was sitting alone at her and her best friends’, Happy’s, table.

Keyword being was, then a pale girl with black hair and clothes followed by many other people came to her table.

Honestly, Nova was impassive, not quite sure how to react, not that she could even if she wanted to.

So she looked up from the tiny black and sapphire-blue dog in the blue backpack that sat on her lap and studied each of the new people's faces carefully.

Once deciding she had no reason to talk to these people she looked back down to Happy, with slow almost delayed movements.

The newsies break into various conversations amongst themselves.

“So what's your name sweetheart?” Race asks, on the fence of friendly and flirting.

“Race…” Moon says warningly.

Race puts his hands up in defense. “Hey I’m just being friendly”

“Too friendly.....,” Moon mumbles unamused, “’Sides won't Spotty get jealous?” Moon suggests teasingly.

Race flips Moon off; she gladly returns the gesture.

Nova shrunk into herself and looked down. Though she may have been too nervous as she started squeezing her bag, forgetting about her furry blue companion until he squeaked and yipped.

Nova released her vice grip instantly like she had been burned, hoping no one heard Happy.

“Is that a dog?” Race asks in slight disbelief.

Sarcastic comments answer his question, followed by various cooing noises.

Nova nods and pulls her blue puppy from the equally as the blue bag, and set him on the table. Happy barks and purrs to all the new people.

Everyone starts to grab at him but quickly stop at some of the more respectful people's death glares.

“P-plea-se…” Nova speaks barely above a whisper, “Don't tell anyone else..”

“Don't worry, we ain't gonna turn ya in,” Jack reassures.

Nova merely nods her head; eyes and facial feature void of any and all emotion.

Everyone continues to gush and adore Happy’s tiny, adorable appearance, until two severely dreaded voices butt into the conversation. The Delancey’s.

“Well, well, well...Look what we got here… the little orphans found themselves a new baby orphan....how cute..” Morris snarks rudely.

“So tell me...what did ya name her?” Oscar remarks.

“Fuck off, Delancey.” Race spats, clearly annoyed at the brother’s presence.

Nova swoops Happy off the tables and crushes him lightly to her chest, slightly panicking before going scarily still.

“Oooo I’d watch that mouth of yours, fag,” Morris sneers, “Wouldn't want to get in trouble.”

Race lunges at them but is held back by Moon and Albert.

Nova stays quiet throughout the entire ordeal until the annoyance is too overwhelming. Suddenly a book is flung at Morris's head, coming from none other than Nova.

“Whoa,” Jack breathes in awe, as the hardback hits its target, dead-center.

Oscar helps Morris back on his feet, muttering crossly, “What the fuck..?!” Then he growls lowly, “I wouldn't do that if I were you, ya little bitch.”

Nova sits there, looking down and hiding her face with her hair as she cuddles Happy.

“Doko ka ni itte.. (Go away)” She murmurs with an almost tone of anger.

“She’s even Chinese,” Morris scoffs disgustedly, “Why the hell are you in America?”

Filled with rage, Moon quickly takes down Oscar, and Jack takes down Morris.

Nova looks at the Delancy's indifferently. “It's Japanese, assholes.”

“KELLY! DARE! Stop beating Mr. and Mr. Delancey immediately!” a loud harsh voice commands.

As the ever-so-feared Snyder walks in, Nova stands up quickly. Bumping into the table in the process, she speaks up the loudest she had so far, which was less than the average volume.

“It was self-defense.” Nova states.

“Ruthlessly beating fellow students for no reason is not self-defense, little girl.” Snyder construes bitterly.

Nova stares at him emotionlessly, yet her eyes burned with a passion. “They came at us first, so that is a reason.” Nova harshly enounces.

Snyder continues to maintain his unjust claim; his facade of dominance never cracking. “I saw two students ruthlessly beating two other fellow students, I did not see this aforementioned attack, therefore, it never happened.” He insists unfairly, “Anyways these two have a record for doing things just like this.”

Nova stares at Snyder, her patience wearing thin. “Ever think to hear the other side of the story?” Nova retorts hotly.

“I've heard all the sides I need to…” Snyder concludes before looking back to Nova sharply, “Now if I were you I would watch your tongue before you end up like these two.” He gestures to Jack and Moon, “Now, Kelly. Dare. See me after lunch. Delancey's, go see the nurse.”

Morris smirks as he and his brother leave. “I warned ya..”

Nova growls darkly at the Delancey's as they go.

Moon leans into her hand. “First day and I got detention. I’m doing even better than last year,” She smirks sarcastically.

Nova, staring with unexpressed pissed-off-ness, reaches around and grabs Happy, she mutters something to him before placing him down. And he takes off to complete the tasks given; no one notices him nor Nova as she raises her head in the triumph of what she told Happy to do.

Ignoring the newsies’ chatter; Nova wordlessly sits down, pulls out a book, and begins to read as she waits for her loyal blue friend.

Nova had gotten a little way through her book but began to become a bit worried that Happy wasn't back until she saw his signature azure and charcoal fur trotting back to her and he head-butted her leg. She picked him up and tilted her head to him before tucking him safely into her blue bag.

Thankfully, before Snyder came marching into the cafeteria with the rage practically radiating off of him.

“Why is my office vandalized?” he inquires standing in front of the table

“Maybe it’s trying to get rid of you,” Race snarks.

“Higgins, you will be joining your friends later if you don't keep your mouth shut.” Snyder hisses threateningly.

Snyder clears his throat and stands tall. “Now, who vandalized my office?”

“What makes ya think it was us?” Albert asks defensively

Standing with a silent pride, Nova stands straight and looks right into Snyder's eyes. She tilts her head.

“Oh, was that wrong?” She asks innocently.

“Is that a confession?”

Nova blankly stares at him and stands still like a statue, refusing to respond.

“Cat got your tongue?” Snyder asks mockingly.

Nova tilts her head and says only one thing very flatly. “Tyrant..”

“What did you say?” Snyder questions, daring her to say it again.

Nova continues to stare at him like a statue, but leans in and speaks a little louder. “Tyrant...”

“Miss.....?” Snyder trails off, inquiring her last name.

But she stubbornly narrows her eyes and purses her lips; refusing him an answer.

“You will join these two,” Jack and Moon wave at her, “after lunch. This sort of behavior is not tolerated here.” and he walks away.

The sounds of the newsies applauding come from behind Nova.

Race looks at her in awe and praises; “That was amazing!”

Nova turns to the newsies and says simply. “I only called him out for what he is…”

Jack laughs lightly, almost disbelievingly. “Yeah… most people don't do that, you're one of a kind.”

Nova sits back down at the table, looking a the newsies with mild shock. “Really? I was about ready to knock him on his ass.”

“Well… everyone's sorta terrified of him,” Jack clarifies.

Nova purses her lips and mumbles quietly “hm, terrified of someone set off by a puppy... interesting..”

She pulls Happy out of the bag once again and scratches behind his ears

“Good boy, good boy..” Nova cooes to Happy who purrs loudly.

Jack looks at her skeptically. “Ummm.... yeah.... the thing is: he runs detention and ISS and he ain't exactly afraid to get physical,” He explains.

Nova’s eyes give a far-off look; like she's reliving a bad memory. “I's ain't afraid of being hit anymore... I'm used to it…”

“Ummmm.....you might wanna see someone about that,” Race suggests.

Nova goes back to emotionless and waves her hand dismissively in the air. “It's not like anyone would believe me anyway..”

“I sorta meant therapy, but your choice,” Race drawls.

Nova shrugs then goes back to cuddling Happy and she mumbles very quietly in his fur “.... dead girls ain't got no need for therapy........”

Moon gags slightly from hearing that, causing Albert to shoot her a concerned look, but she waves him off.

The newsies continued their idle conversations and Nova resumed her impassive facade as she played with Happy, until the bell rang. When the ear-splitting sound resounded through the air, Nova scurried away from the table, slinging the zipped up backpack over her back. Then she shot off to Snyder’s office.

Moon wasn't sure what that girl meant when she referred to herself as a dead girl, but she was sure as hell going to find out. After ISS, of course.

Well, that happened. Thanks for reading our stuff! Feedback is appreciated.

Taglist:

@neko-kaiyo

@watersocky -yeah your tag doesnt work

@darthnateyt

@starryfinnick

@auspicioustarantula

#ahhhhhh #bad writing #my writing #Neko #Neko is great guys #Moon #Nova #OC #ooc #newsies #race #albert #theres more to this #ummmm #yeah #ill probably reblog this with whatever i forgot this time

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topmixtrends · 6 years

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CRITICAL CONSENSUS HOLDS that Wes Anderson movies are about loss. For some artists, aestheticism acts as a kind of spider’s silk: a complexly structured beauty proves best for binding and healing whatever wound. As with a play by the unloved Wilde or a mazurka by the exiled Chopin, the sheer symmetrical precision of an Anderson film knits up and covers over trauma the way that Richie Tenenbaum’s bandages knit up his slashed wrists.

But Isle of Dogs, the director’s most recent stop-motion effort, is not a movie about loss. It’s not even about losing, nor about the ethical and aesthetic miracle of sustaining a marvelously well-ordered fantasy in the face of devastation — you know, that whole Anderson thing.

By contrast, Isle of Dogs is a movie about finding: finding a dog, finding your friends and family, finding your purpose and your identity. So it is slightly difficult to integrate it into the Anderson oeuvre: its primary affect is not sorrow or melancholy but anger, its aesthetic a kind of closely controlled, roiling ickiness: packs of grimy dogs explode into fights, samurai heads fall off, planes burst into immaculate balls of cotton-fluff smoke, sushi fish are hacked up squirmingly alive. At every point in the film (and the film is surprisingly unpleasant to watch for precisely this reason), Anderson seems to ask what forms, what styles, are commensurate to rage — and not just to rage but to a double-pronged, rage-driven teen quest to defeat the patent unfairness of the world.

A first answer would appear to be taiko drumming: in a well of light, surrounded by darkness, three well-fleshed, bare-chested adolescents hammer out a theme by Oscar-winner Alexandre Desplat. We are then drawn into an epic expository sequence about a centuries-old conflict between the dogs of Japan and the cat-loving Kobayashi dynasty, which still controls the fictional Uni Prefecture, which in turns contains the fictional city of Megasaki. Cut to the issuing of a municipal decree by the mayor of Megasaki, who is also the current head of the Kobayashi dynasty, 20 years in the future, as measured from our heterodiegetic present: infected with something called “Dog Flu,” all of the city’s dogs are to be quarantined on Trash Island, now known as the Isle of Dogs. The mayor’s ward, Atari Kobayashi (Koyu Rankin), aged 12 — granted, not quite a teen, but pissed as hell, a classic Anderson pubescent — watches from the shadows as his beloved guard dog, Spots (Liev Schreiber), is sent off in a crate as proof that his guardian means business.

Revealed mostly in flashbacks, Spots’s fate furnishes one of the film’s intricate, Andersonian subplots; just as crammed with reversals, the A story details Atari’s quest to find Spots on Trash Island. He’s helped by a pack of alpha dogs voiced by regular Anderson collaborators: former house pets Rex (Edward Norton), King (Bob Balaban), Boss (Bill Murray), and Duke (Jeff Goldblum), plus Chief (Bryan Cranston), a former stray. If this sounds cute, well, it isn’t. The film’s violence is remarkably violent. Chief’s a scrapper: in his first scene he chews off another dog’s ear. It sits like a hot-sauced chicharron in the center of the screen, vaguely horrid and blood-spotted, until it’s dragged away by a rat. As they journey, the dogs pass through a series of gorgeously bleak landscapes, arguing among themselves all the while. The group’s conflicts usually center on Rex, head of the pets — who wants to help Atari — and Chief, sole gutter spawn, who’s keeping an open mind on the question of whether the dogs should just eat him. Cranston-as-Chief sometimes sounds so threateningly grumpy his performance sometimes loses its comic touch.

The B plot follows Tracy Walker (Greta Gerwig), a foreign exchange student from Ohio and the second prong of Anderson’s preteen anger force. Tracy is a cub reporter on the Megasaki Senior High newspaper; she is also very noticeably pissed. She declares she’s angry at several points. She hates the mayor, hates that he’s corrupt, hates that no one in Megasaki can see how corrupt and unfair the treatment of its dog population might be. She chews her gum so hard you can hear it — that’s how pissed she is. As she discovers that a massive conspiracy lies behind the dogs’ expulsion, she only gets madder. On the hunt for a serum to cure the dogs of Trash Island, she bursts into a bar and screams down a bereaved scientist voiced by Yoko Ono. The scene is almost unwatchably unpleasant: anger is, based on the scantiness of its representation, more unsettling than fear or grief. On the other hand, there’s a certain bravery in showing us a character’s outrage, even at the cost of showing — or trying to show us — things atrocious enough to outrage both the character and the audience.

Unlike cats, who conspire with the corrupt Kobayashis, the dogs of Megasaki are fundamentally innocent — and so, of course, people would send them to hell, misdirection of our own pain or culpability onto the nearest possible Other being the single great talent of humankind. Thus scapegoated, the dogs form their own raggedy community. And again, an ugliness, an ickiness, holds the day despite the ingenuity, the sheer (and familiar) beauty of certain of Anderson’s shots. The emaciated, dirty, insomniac creatures we see in an early montage flirt with the Burton-esque. The atrocities perpetrated on another subcommunity of Trash Island dogs — the survivors of a medical facility where they were experimented on — leaves many of them with glass eyes, tubes sticking out of their necks, or, in the case of the old, much-bereaved dog Gondo (Harvey Keitel), a face that’s half-bald and decorated with medical tattoos. (Keitel’s monologue about the loss of his own fellow canine best friend — riven by instinctive howling — is the film’s best performance.)

Anderson has never shied from medical horror, torture, arterial blood, knives, arrows, severed heads, severed fingers, small arms, pepper spray, flamethrowers, sabers, shoves out of windows and down stairs, punches to the nose, and bigtime scuffles of the squad-of-baddies-on-squad-of-hapless-heroes or bro-on-bro or even the kid-on-kid kind. In Moonrise Kingdom, Social Services threatens 12-year-old Sam Shakusky with electric shock for refusing to betray his true love, Suzy Bishop; Anderson’s previous stop-motion film, Fantastic Mr. Fox, also sports with amputations and gory gallows humor. But Isle throbs with a much darker and more disturbing intensity than any of Anderson’s other films. It flirts with the thin representational line between slapstick and cruelty. In two different instances, we are left to think that our favorite characters — sweet innocent dogs — have either starved to death or been incinerated. Audible gasps of adult discomfort accompanied both scenes both times I saw the film. Not for nothing is its PG-13 rating for “violent images.”

But that makes the film a challenge — its nearest animal-tale analogue, so far as I can tell, is Art Spiegelman’s Maus. At the very least, it helps furnish some internal answer as to what to do about movies that, like this one, seem to make people very mad.

Upon the film’s release, some heralded Isle of Dogs as prescient; they celebrated it, for example, for its celebration of student protest. But the idealism of the pro-dog movement as headed by the gum-snapping, conspiracy-busting Tracy doesn’t much resemble anything that young people might find to protest. In a certain sense — although no one in the film can know this, since the humans and the dogs in Megasaki don’t speak the same language — Chief and co. are quirky but loyal old-fashioned, white-sounding dudes who want nothing more than to find masters. Counterpoised against this wholesome if utterly outdated modus vivendi is a vision of fascist evil decidedly incomplete — a vision of camps and complete dog extermination that conjures up the Holocaust but that leaves aside other ways that fascism has expressed itself in any moment closer to Tracy’s and Atari’s or our own.

Whether it is appropriate to aestheticize the Holocaust is one question (shades of Maus again — but the film has none of the comic book’s claim to history); strong views on both sides would make for a real conversation. But the film has attracted even stronger takes. Though the critical dust has mostly settled, the film’s reception was hampered by charges of cultural appropriation: Justin Chang of the Los Angeles Times wrote a scathing review of what he saw as Anderson’s failures. But as a recent piece at The New Yorker rightly points out, Anderson did not invent the commodification or appropriation of Japanese culture, and Japonism was often aided and abetted by the Japanese. Indeed, the mayor of Megasaki is a thundering Asian dictator — very close to racist stereotype — but then again, he looks not a little like the thundering dictator-to-be who runs our country. And if Anderson’s fictional Megasaki is no more than a Japanese-ish place outside of history, that’s for better and for worse, too. We learn that Trash Island was repeatedly destroyed by the natural disasters to which the Japanese archipelago is in fact susceptible — volcanoes, tidal waves — but the film’s Japan does not seem to have known the unnatural disaster that killed twice as many people as the nearest natural contender. There is something moderately disturbing about a Japan that has never known the American atomic bomb — and then again, there’s something beautiful about it, too.

To me, there is nothing (or maybe only one thing) about Isle of Dogs that seems finally vehemently unjust. In many of its aspects — perhaps especially in its complex idealization of a universal emotion — the film is a reminder that our representations can adopt a playful, inter-cultural permeability. One hopes that at the same time, though, we are still pursuing, honing, and revising a better understanding of what kinds of representations by what kinds of people are just. This knowledge — which is made and assembled and broken down and reassembled collectively, like all other forms of knowledge — involves an awareness not only of race or ethnicity or nationality but of the intersections of those constructs with gender and class and then, too, with history and with the way that historiography is shaped by power relations. And at the same time, a person has to grapple with the idea that elite internationalist culture of the kind Anderson now incarnates exploits anyone who has no access to the free movement of capital between countries.

Which is to say that that process is long and complex as hell. No one artist can be expected to manage all of these relations; no one artist ever has. Ideally, too, no critic should fly off the handle without understanding what the purpose of their flying off the handle might be.

So here I go flying right off the handle. Watch me.

Wes Anderson might or might not want to know that his film’s vision of gender struck me as frankly awful. We have Tracy and Yoko in Isle of Dogs’s human population, but there are only three “bitches” in the film. And yes, “bitch” is the word the dogs use. It’s a joke that never lands anything but awkwardly, the kind of obsolete and embarrassing joke my dad would make to utter silence at the dinner table. One, the pug, Oracle (Tilda Swinton), is sexless; the other two, Nutmeg (Scarlett Johansson) and Peppermint (Kara Hayward), function purely as love interests for alphas — or rather, and more grimly, as prospective mates. Nutmeg’s character arc consists solely of reversing her original objection that no one should bring puppies into the world of Trash Island and becoming a mother. (The change? The dogs escape from Trash Island.)

Nutmeg is a fancy show dog, and she sometimes does amazing tricks for Chief — balancing on her front paws while juggling invisible bowling balls or bowling pins — but this finally incomplete attempt to make her seem interesting only makes it too easy to imagine that with slightest story tweaks she could, er, actually do something. As it is, she exists solely to suggest to Chief that he should help Atari find Spots — that is, to use her sexual magnetism to help an emotionally stunted alpha male remember what’s important about life. And yes, Chief does eventually find a job and become a family man, a bizarrely schlocky outcome for any Anderson protagonist. Worst is that the proposition and subsequent worship of these sorts of faux-interesting female characters is an easily solvable problem, one that could have been fixed in any number of ways without altering the film’s vision.

Unless that vision is finally and most importantly the sad, worn-out vision of indomitable American masculinity. Chief can’t make a good house pet because, as he reminds us frequently, he bites. And why does he bite? He doesn’t know. He’s aggressive, he’s never known love — and even when he does, at film’s end, become a “good boy” and agree to serve as Atari’s new guard dog, he still struggles not to bite the shit out of visiting dignitaries. His ultimate virility is verified at the end of the film by Nutmeg, who assures him that she isn’t attracted to tame animals. Fine: Wildness is a virtue. But the film’s characterological structure suggests that Nutmeg only understands Chief because she is the tamest possible animal (that is, a show dog). The story of Chief and Nutmeg feels like a warmed-over Lady and the Tramp — when so much more might have been possible in terms of either character and in terms of their relationship.

Then again, their love could be read as an incarnation of the two central columns of Andersonian filmmaking and of Isle of Dogs itself: the unpredictable and chaotic in Chief, his rage and sorrow, is elaborated out into the exquisite comical expertise of Nutmeg’s tricks. And that is neither objectionable nor regrettable but rather the mark of a mature film, one that figures its own making inside itself.

The point, I think, is that any film is only ever the film that it is. But it also lives differently in each historical moment and persists or dies differently in the way that, not just each culture, but each one of us remembers or forgets it — how much we choose to argue and about what. For now, Isle of Dogs is, for me, memorable as one of the few testaments to how important it is to be pissed, how it is surprisingly possible to make and explore within a state of outrage, of conviction usually considered too much, too large, and too loud for complex and careful thought, much less for beautiful form.

Marc Dragon lives and works in Los Angeles.

The post The Madness to Wes Anderson’s Method appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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rylekayner · 7 years

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Sprace Collage AU but not really: Part 1

Astro physics is hard, people are harder. Just ask racetrack Higgins.

Antonio Higgins better known as Racetrack or Race to his friends was easily one of the smartest kids in all of New York. From a young age he was able to complete complex mathematics in heart beat and craft ridiculous science experiments which his teachers hardly understood. Ivy league collage material for sure, only there was one minor set back. Well maybe not so minor, but hey, you try taking a test while dealing with anxiety sometime.

So At age 20 when he should have been off a Harvard studying to set up the mars landing or something of the sort. He was trudging home on a wet winters day from the a shift a the cinema he worked at. Well use to work at , apparently in order to work at the counter you weren’t aloud to ignore the customers and was under qualified to even work as a janitor. He studied at college, given his obvious intelligence you’d think that collage is a breeze and if Race was to be honest it was but today got his semester grade back and remembered why he had turned down the countless offers to further his education. In a phrase: Racetrack Higgins was useless.

“Oscar, Honey, i’m home” he called in a sarcastically cheerful tone to his asshole room mate Oscar Delancy. “Great, now grab your bags and make like a tree” Oscar smiled maliciously gesturing to a pile of Racetrack’s belongings bundled into a handful of bags by the door. “Haha, very funny.” Race returned the smile malice and contempt shining through his eyes. “I’ve told you not to touch my stuff you asshole. Now move!” Race went to pick up his stuff and move it back to his room only to find that Oscar was blocking his way cornering him against the wall, he could feel the fear eating away at him, Race wasn’t that short but Oscar seemed twice his height from this angle. “I said move asshole” Race repeated himself trying to keep his voice steady. “And i said you should leave” Oscar growled threateningly backing race further up against the wall. “Dont mess around Oscar, I live here too.” Race insisted despite his heart beat raging in his ears pounding like a drum. “Not anymore, the landlord wants you out” he smiled like a wolf “apparently the neighbors have put in noise complaints about us, I can’t believe you’d have a party and not invite me.” Race felt his jaw drop, Oscar blamed his own blow party’s on race and now because of that lying asshole he was going to be homeless. The fight physically drained out of him and he stubbornly held a straight face as he felt the tears cascading down his cheeks refusing to acknowledge he was crying. “Y-you” his voice crack despite his best efforts to keep of steady “y-you lying ASSHOLE!” He yelled as be took his bags in one hand and slammed the door in Oscars smirking face.

Race couldn’t run, he didn’t have the energy let alone the will to do so, instead of running through the streets hopelessly lost he decoded to walk to one of the biggest of New York icons. The Brooklyn bridge. He sat with his head in his hands for god knows how long and sobbed, he sobbed loud, he sobbed long and most of all he sobbed hopelessly. Jobless, homeless, no way to finish his collage degree, not that he thought he was smart enough to anyway.

Time seemed to pass differently from where he was and the city began to slow down into a lull becoming as quiet as New York could get when a voice broke the trace, a voice directed at him.

“Hey, hey kid, is you okay?” The voice asked a heavy Brooklyn accent was easily identifiable in a gruff tone

Race looked up to see a short man with muscley arms and surprisingly feminine facial structure, the man looked kind of familiar but Race couldn’t think where from so he brushed the feeling off and hurried to wipe the tear of hi cheeks.

“Yous got a name kid” the man asked despite only looking a few years older than Race. “Don’t call me kid” he said in a quiet voice not wanting to offend the seemingly nice man. “Well if you tell me your name I could use that instead” he said nonchalantly “Antonio, but you can call me Race” he offered the man a hand to shake feeling a little more confident “OK race” he said as if testing out how the name rolled off his tongue “my names Sean Conlon, can you tell what yous doing out here alone when yous clearly ain’t in any condition to be anywhere”

For the second time that night Race felt his jaw drop. That why the man looked familiar. Sean Conlon one of the richest people in new York at the age of 19 he was already CEO of his own billion dollar company 5 years later his empire had only grown, nicknamed the king of Brooklyn he was not only very very rich, he was also very very powerful.

Suddenly losing any confidence he snapped his mouth shut and dropped his hand rethinking his response. “Its nothing sir I’m sorry to bother you” he said shakily “Hey, no, that ain’t alright and neither are you” he said picking up races bag from him “how about a take you out for late night coffee and you can clear your head” Sean offered race his other hand which race then took and was pulled to his feet. “Thankyou Mr Conlon sir” race said shyly dropping his hand as soon as he was stable. The slightly older man visibly cringed at the name and title “just call me Sean, actually you gave me ya nickname i’ll give ya mine, you call me Spot”

#newsies #sprace #fanfic #spot conlon #racetrack higgins #newsies au #newsies fanfiction

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its-just-like-the-movies · 7 years

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The Letter (1940, A)

There is something wonderful about how the best Old Hollywood, big studio melodramas so deliciously inhabit a space between the visual beauty of their wealthy protagonists (and producers), the bigness of their emotions, and the sincerity of their realization. It’s almost funny watching Dark Victory, which fervently tugs on the heartstrings through its magnificent score, every element working in tandem to make you feel sympathetic for a dying Bette Davis. And yet, in spite of how overtly the whole thing is working to get to you, in spite of how much you can see the wires, it still works. Then again, being able to see the way these pictures are constructed isn’t because they’re poorly made, the methods of filmmaking are just more resplendently obvious than a comparable picture might be today. Then again, would a modern version of The Letter be able to be as compelling, given today’s filmmaking practices? There’s no tinkling score or over-reliance on actors to shape the material, no juggling between close-ups to film a scene, no affectation around the wealth of its protagonists, no cleaning up of the politics around it. Would it feel the need to do that, even if it set in a pre-WWII rubber farm in Singapore? What would a contemporary setting even be for this project?

But why fret about the movies of the never when we can gush about the movies of the almost eighty years ago, and how well they hold up? Even if some of why The Letter’s combined elements are so noticeable is because of the era in filmmaking it resides in, as much of it is because the film is so virtuosically assembled that you cannot help but notice the quality of the whole and how wonderfully constructed each of the parts are. Yes, there is the Hays Code ending that is so obviously tacked on, and how an oddly cast, imperiously framed Gale Sondergaard somehow turns in a bad performance despite never saying a word in English. But these are two minor perforations in an impressive vehicle, stuffed to the brim with peak contributions from almost literally everyone involved. Rare is the film with seven Academy Award nominations that I can happily stand by every single one of them, and in fact wonder where its Costume Design and Adapted Screenplay nominations, perhaps even Production Design. Even rarer is for a women’s picture of any kind to get that kind of recognition this day in age. Bette Davis is the sole, unabashed lead of this Best Picture nominee, and it’s practically impossible to attach that kind of Oscar heat to any recent Best Actress nominee that doesn’t have an accompanying Best Actor nominee waiting in the wings. Technical juggernaut Gravity is the only exception to the rule in this decade, throw in The Hours, Chicago, and Moulin Rouge! and we’ve got the millennium covered. It’s dispiriting to realize how many Best Actress nominees are the sole representatives of their films, and even more dispiriting to wonder if the same fate would’ve befallen The Letter. So let’s rejoice again that it was made in an era where women’s pictures were known as a valuable commodity at the box office and to those all-valuable awards bodies, and let me get down to actually talking about it.

You could hardly ask for a more galvanizing opening to The Letter, as the tranquil roll of the credits over workers luxuriating in their barracks in the moonlight is broken by the sound of a gunshot. Out bursts an unknown, wounded man who becomes even more doomed once we see that the person shooting him is Bette Davis. The steeliness of her posture, the rigidity of her arm, the hardness of her expression, everything about the way Leslie Crosbie kills the man she says tried to rape her is the only thing that feels like it contradicts her later recounting that she doesn’t remember killing Geoff Hammond. Her presence, her rage, is simply too potent to match her description - no, her recreation - of a frightened woman desperately fighting for her life. Not that Leslie’s retelling of the killing to her husband Robert and her lawyer Howard Joyce isn’t completely convincing. In fact, what sets off Joyce’s antennae is how perfectly she tells this story of fighting for her honor against a drunk acquaintance, how composed she is until she suddenly isn’t, how there’s something that’s just off about her otherwise spot-on description of events. These suspicions are given even greater weight once he learns from his assistant about the existence of a letter from Leslie, suggesting a relationship with Hammond and asking for a meeting the night he died, albeit threateningly. An explanation that Leslie wanted to corroborate on buying her husband a birthday gun doesn’t quite stick, but she tells it like a woman trying to save her life and get back to her husband, not a scheming murderess furious she isn’t being believed, though her rage is still palpable.

And yet, because the letter is not public knowledge, the idea of Leslie being in any legal trouble is a joke to the wealthy whites of Singapore. Yes, she did kill a man, but because he died how he died, it’s not as though anyone thinks Leslie committed a crime. She defended herself from a drunk attacker, already ostracized for marrying a Eurasian local. Mrs. Hammond, who does not get get a first name, is the woman in possession on the titular, scandalous letter, and most of the film is devoted to Leslie and Mr. Joyce trying to get it from her, fulfilling her requests and meeting her in the ethnic part of Singapore to make the trade. The actual trade-off is perhaps the film’s second-weakest sequence, though one wonders how much this could’ve been elevated even a little had Gale Sondergaard decided to pick an expression other than Imperious Anger. Eyes lit by moonlight through window shades, the sheer electricity of her anger feels oddly one-note, though Mrs. Hammond being scripted only in unsubtitled Chinese denies us any way of understanding why she would give Leslie the only evidence that could possibly bring her husband’s killer to justice. It’s still as tense as any other scene in the film, though it’s just too obvious that Wyler doesn’t know what to do with Mrs. Hammond aside from framing her as a narrative obstacle, not a human person. As it stands, the central conflict of The Letter is not about the trial or the letter so much as it is the accruing of tensions around its main characters as these events come hurtling towards them. What is the state of Joyce’s ethics, his soul, as he commits himself to taking this letter away from the eyes of the prosecution and the hands of a widow to save his friends? What shall become of doting Robert once he finds out the letter exists, and what has been done to acquire it? What’s to make of Leslie’s soul as it is, and who is she really? A long-standing lover or a rattled wife, both perhaps responding a little too insouciantly after killing a man on front steps of her bungalow.

Still, say this for Wyler, Mrs. Hammond is by far the exception to the rule of quality in The Letter. All three of its tech Oscars are richly deserved; Georgy Amy and Warren Low make this is a fleetly edited yarn that knows when best to deploy a close-up, a two-shot, to jump to an insert of an important item. Max Steiner’s score is roiling, emotive, and malleable enough to fit into any emotion Bette Davis is telegraphing for us, even if her face isn’t quite saying it. And Tony Gaudio’s cinematography is a tremendous, nimble asset to The Letter, doing great work with moonlight coming in through window screens, with the blocking of actors, with finding the right angles to get a pang of unrest at an empty porch, a bedside confession, a shadow traveling on the lawn. . Much like the first hour of Malcolm X, Gaudio’s cinematography in the film’s lowest moments - the tradeoff with Mrs. Hammond and the tacked-on finale - creates a feast for the eyes and an interesting mood that almost takes away from how disinterested the director is in these moments. To hop off Oscar’s bandwagon for a quick moment, let’s not deny ourselves how scrumptious each and every one of Leslie’s outfits are, how well Joyce’s and Robert’s suits fit their bodies, how intimidatingly styled Mrs. Hammond is.

But let's not bury the lede here. The Letter lives and dies by how Wyler and Davis navigate the role of Leslie Crosbie, and they do incomparable work filling out this woman without betraying her. The first real genius of Davis’ performance is that Leslie’s responses to new information are in the basis on emotion and intellect without flaunting if these reactions are coming from an innocent or guilty mind. The questions of Leslie Crosbie’s innocence or guilt, steel and vulnerability, who she does and doesn’t believe in, is handled with remarkable subtlety and depth by Wyler and Bette Davis. The genius of her performance specifically is that she does not sell out Leslie, navigating her emotional and intellectual arcs without playing innocent or guilty outright. This isn’t John Carroll Lynch’s squirrelly prevarication in Zodiac, actively playing the perceptions of the audience or her fellow characters, but nor is this Rooney Mara’s shell-shocked, impenetrable innocence in the first half of Side Effects. Davis’ choices are compelling in the moment and hold up once every truth has been laid bare, every letter read and confession given. It is the way that Davis responds to new pieces of evidence, to questions, to statements of affirmation from friends, from her husband, from Joyce, emotionally and intellectually, in how she moves her eyes and cocks her head. Even if we doubt the honesty of what Leslie is saying, we never doubt the emotional Davis is an actress who knows how to use her entire body in a performance, not just those electric eyes but her posture and her physicality - the different ways she grabs her husband, her posture as she shoots Geoff Hammond, her unease with Mrs. Hammond - and that theatricality, on top of the bigness of her emotions and the subtlety of her playing, fits perfectly with The Letter’s tone, Wyler’s ambitions, and Leslie’s truths.

James Stephenson as Howard Joyce gives the film’s other great performance, and in contrast to Davis his greatness is based in stillness, the variants and degradations of commonalities in a decent, hardworking man. Joyce’s willingness to go along with obtaining the letter goes against everything Joyce believes in, yet he cannot seem to understand why he’s putting his career in jeopardy, even if he is friends with the Crosbies. Stephenson finds the tremors in Joyce’s faux-cool exterior, seemingly taking the whole thing in stride as becomes increasingly fraught by his own actions. His closing statement to the jury of Leslie’s trial, the outcome so assured the prosecution doesn’t even bother to present their own finisher, betrays so many emotional conflicts while still functioning perfectly as an impassioned statement on behalf of his client. Herbert Marshall is very much the third wheel narratively and in terms of performance, though his turn is still poignantly sympathetic to this basically decent man being kept from the truth about his wife until he stumbles into it.

Robert’s stumbling happens almost immediately after the trial concludes, where a getaway plan is dashed once he learns about the letter, and what was done to acquire it. The truth about the night Geoff Hammond died, what prompted him to arrive and what he did to make Leslie shoot her, is finally revealed by Leslie herself. The final half hour is essentially a series of reckonings between Leslie and her husband as the two realize what their marriage can and cannot withstand, culminating in the film’s saddest confession as Leslie howls in the face of a failed reconciliation that she is still in love with the man she killed. It’s here that the tacked-on ending of the Hays Code takes hold, as an eye is exchanged for an eye on Leslie’s front lawn. A getaway stroll is immediately foiled by a police officer the killer stumbles into, an arrest seemingly made through a series of silent glances. It’s palpably odd, unlike a similar tacked-on comeuppance in The Bad Seed, where its ethics-code assigned bit of karmic justice fits the film’s cray-cray style. I suppose The Letter chooses the proper minor character to dole out vengeance, but the sudden resolution of the killing feels bizarrely enacted. As mentioned early, the sheer beauty of certain moments in the sequence feels as though Wyler is trying to find something to be interested in, and its truncated presentation suggests he’s trying to get through it as quickly as possible. The sheer distance Wyler stages us from the killing is odd considering how close we are to Leslie’s killing of Hammond at the beginning, how he does nothing to skimp on the violence of the moment and the responses it creates in Leslie, in the panicked workers. Yes, this killing is done in almost complete isolation, but even the audience is isolated from it, and the poignancy of the moment suffers for it.

If I’ve had a difficult time balancing between what’s inevitable about The Letter and keeping some of the mysteries intact, forgive me, but it’s hard to call the narrative trajectory the film’s most compelling feature. It’s a character study with the trappings of a film noir. The Letter is a deep plumbing of Leslie Crosbie by Wyler and Davis, and they do so with astonishing success and syncopation. There’s no distance between Leslie and Bette, even if the performance is so remarkably realized you can’t help but notice how good she is in the role. The diminished returns of the final minute is nothing compared to the preceding 93 minutes, and I’m amazed that in all my ramblings I’ve barely devoted a paragraph to Wyler’s direction. To be fair, Wyler credited himself totally with the success of The Letter once it was realized, though the fact that the man is perfectly willing to speak for himself is no excuse not to give my own praise. Wyler makes the film sing, coordinating perfectly not just with Davis but with Stephenson, with Steiner, with Gaudio, with Amy and Law. His is the hand that guides the whole thing to triumph, and he’s as worth crediting as Bette Davis is for making The Letter such a vivid, singular experience. Even if the trial is seen as a joke by many of the characters, Wyler’s investment in the trial is enough that the incriminating letter has real weight on him and on Leslie. The stakes of the whole thing, and how those stakes are different for Leslie and for Joyce, is never lost on him.

Have I said enough to convince you to go and watch The Letter? Frankly, I’ve run out of nice things to say about the film. Taking into account the two quibbles I’ve made about Mrs. Hammond and the odd ending, it’s not enough to matter compared to the virtuosity that the rest of the film exerts. There’s no moment when the picture isn’t completely compelling, and if the sputtering disorganization of this paper indicates anything, it’s that my enthusiasm for the film far outweighs my interest in giving an organized testimony about it. You could never get a corker this finely tuned and psychologically rich made this day in age, let alone one starring a platinum-class actress operating in perfect sync with an equally invaluable director. The Letter has a gargantuan amount to offer, from the fascination of the central mystery to how marvelously it’s realized on every level. You could barely ask for a better version of the film, certainly not one with the Hays Code in play. I’d encourage anyone with an interest in top-tier actressing, sordid 40’s mysteries, stylized lighting, spiritual crises, all guided by a genius director, to rent this film as soon as you possibly can. Hell, buy it. Every choice in The Letter is carried out with finesse, fulfilling its duty to the moment and to the ultimate finale. At 95 minutes it’s built like a steel watch, endlessly rewatchable and sturdy enough to withstand multiple viewings. So go, my pretties. Find The Letter. Give it the attention that it deserves. Anything that has the hutzpah to open with a woman killing a man at the dead of night knows exactly what it’s doing from the start, and believe me, anything this confident and charismatic deserves more shots at our love and attention than the six that Geoff Hammond got.

#my posts #my reviews #the letter #1940 #i get it you guys it's a mess but I started this got lost and powered through it #by making the piece insanely long and poorly structured #at least to me it seems unstructured #ah well #enjoy it guys!

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